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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27434341">Defensora</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathAbernathy/pseuds/KathAbernathy'>KathAbernathy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Walking Dead (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood and Violence, Drama, F/M, season 10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:20:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>68,157</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27434341</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathAbernathy/pseuds/KathAbernathy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be just another supply run -- not a fight for their lives.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Daryl Dixon/Carol Peletier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>101</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Sus Scrofa</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story will have zero trigger warnings (because where's the fun in that?). Read at your own risk. Before you get the wrong idea, the rating is for explicit violence, gore, and Dixon mouth, not for explicit sex. After complaining about AMC doing it for a decade, I'm going to take my turn and traumatize Caryl now, and possibly you too, so if you're not ready for that, you may want to move along. </p><p>The events in this fic takes place about a month after after episode 10.16  "A Certain Doom."</p><p>I like to play with Caryl in the TWD sandbox and I own nothing.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's supposed to be just another run.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The most recent autumn storm's taken most of the leaves with it, and they're heading into winter when Carol and Daryl decide to go on one last exploratory trip before the weather turns for the long haul. It's chilly enough they're both bundled head to toe on their way out. Aside from weapons, water and snacks, they carry little extra. Some rope and cord, a roll of duct tape, a tarp, and a first aid kit so ancient the adhesive on the bandaids won't stick. Carol tucks in some extras, but there's not room for much. If they find supplies, they'll need additional spaces to pack them into.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lydia and the Grimes children are home and fine for a day or two. Maggie's staying in the house with the kids and Aaron, Rosita and Gabriel are all checking in on them. Daryl has enough fuel in the bike to easily make it up to thirty miles out and back. The weather coming in from the coast is miserable, and they head west and inland to avoid the worst of it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Any opportunity to ride the bike with Daryl is also an opportunity for Carol to cling to his back like a gecko and feel the heat radiating off his torso into hers. She wouldn't pass it up for anything. She tries not to appear eager as she clambers on behind him and takes a light grip on his waist with her gloved hands. Then they're roaring up the road, leaving whirlwinds of red and gold leaves swirling in their wake.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol closes her eyes and lets the wind whip past her upturned face, happier than she's been since coming off the boat. The Whisperers have been gone for weeks, taking most of the walkers for miles with them. She and Daryl survived another battle, and since the worst threats have been eliminated there's an undercurrent of possibility between them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Always before there's been something to get in the way, followed by something else, followed by something else. Always. For years. Now there's time to slow down and realize they're actually living together. Teasing and dancing around each other and moving closer to that thing between them than ever before. Exchanging embraces and tentative touches that speak what they can't say - yet - with their words. Carol's heart is full of promise and doubt. The combination hurts, but she's learning to welcome the pain.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Every night she lies in her solitary bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking impure thoughts about Daryl. She wishes she could just stop obsessing over him, but after all these years it isn't likely. She's consumed with longing and living with it. It's either that, or spit the truth out, and she's not ready, might never be ready to speak her heart aloud. Daryl might not be ready for it, either.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So she takes what pleasure she can from clinging to his warmth and holding him between her thighs, with the vibrating bike complicating the situation and making her glad she's a woman, able to hide her arousal. She rests the side of her face against his back, and smiles.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*******</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They're checking houses for food and supplies. Strip malls and businesses tend to be overrun to a degree too risky for two people to safely handle. Whatever trouble or number of walkers they find inside a rural home is usually something they can deal with. The horde has taken most of the walkers near Alexandria with it, but this far west, everything is still the same it's been since the Turn.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They search three homes, kill ten walkers, and come up empty. They pull into a long driveway and follow it back into and through a heavy grove of oaks. Just this side of the treeline, they turn the bike off and stop to check their weapons. Carol has her knuckle duster, her long bow, and a .357 revolver she found with several boxes of ammunition a couple runs ago. It's loaded with hollow points and has a lot of kick for a handgun. Daryl carries his knives. His crossbow is strapped to the back of the bike, and the morning star he used at the battle at Hilltop is tucked into one of the panniers with the handle sticking out.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They stand in the shadows at the tree line and share a lunch of jerky and pilot bread, studying the house in the distance. The fields around it are open, overgrown and empty. Daryl pulls the binoculars from his pack and scans the area around the house and outbuildings for movement. Nothing stirs. The long driveway is buried beneath a carpet of years' worth of leaves, branches, and grass, and shows no sign of recent travel.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"A'right," Daryl mutters. "Let's check it out." They get back on the bike and follow the driveway up to where it loops around between the house and the barn. A lone walker stumbles down from the porch to greet them and before Daryl's finished rolling to a stop, Carol leaps gracefully from the back of the bike and buries her knife in its skull. Daryl shoots her a sideways grin and shakes his head.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Don't gotta show off to impress me," he says, "already know you're a badass."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol cocks an eyebrow and studies him curiously. If she didn't know better, she'd think he was flirting with her. "Somebody needs to protect you," she explains.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Well, I'm glad I got you as my defender," Daryl agrees, putting the stand down and stepping off the bike, reaching for his crossbow. "If anyone's gonna keep me safe, its you."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol gives him her side eye. "You making fun of me?" she queries.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Daryl swings the crossbow onto his back and looks at her, puzzled. "Never. Why?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Oh...nothing..." Carol shakes her head. "I'm imagining things, never mind."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They walk up the steps to a covered porch running the length of the house. Except for an abundance of dirt and leaves and twigs, it's untouched. Daryl tries the doorknob and finds it locked. He taps on a nearby window with the butt of his crossbow, summoning any walkers lurking within. Two of them, a man and a woman, lunge out of the shadows to bat and growl at them through the glass. Daryl takes a step back and waits, crossbow held at the ready, while Carol uses the butt of her knife to break a pane in the glass on the door and reaches through to unlock the bolt on the inside. She pulls the door open just as the walkers are coming around the jamb to greet her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They each take one of the walkers out when they reach the porch. Daryl pulls his bolt from his walker's skull and wipes it off with the rag from his pocket before reloading the bolt in his crossbow. They enter the house with care, scanning in opposite directions as they cross the threshold.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"I'll take the upstairs," Carol offers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Nah," Daryl says, shaking his shaggy mane in a negative, "we stay together."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol pauses, then nods and tightens her grip on her knife, wiping it off on a nearby armchair.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They move to the kitchen, finding canned and dry goods in the pantry. Carol has to clap a hand over her mouth to avoid giving a whoop when they open the door. Considering what they usually find, it's a treasure trove. They pull pillowcases off the bed in the master and fill them with canned goods, packaged sides, and spices. There's an unopened, twenty-five pound bag of rice on the floor and they're torn between whether to bring it back with them, or the other items. They can't carry all of it at once on the bike, and the rice might be a stretch.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"We'll decide in a bit," Daryl says. "Let's check the rest of the house."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They ransack the medicine cabinet in the master bath and find antibiotics, benzodiazepines and a big bottle of opiates. "Looks like you hit the jackpot," Daryl observes over her shoulder. "Think that shit's still any good?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol shrugs and pockets the bottles. "Let's hope we never have to find out."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They clear the other two bedrooms and the upstairs bath. The bedrooms all have high thread-count, buttery soft linens and Carol strips the sheets from a bed the same size as hers to take home. She folds them and stuffs them into her backpack.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Really?" Daryl asks. "Those ain't exactly life or death."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Shut up," she says, embarrassed at her frivolity. "My sheets are rough and scratchy. These are... soft."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Never knew you wanted soft sheets for your bed," Daryl murmurs. "I'd a' got you some a long time ago. Satin. Flannel. Maybe silk."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol cocks her head and makes a face at him. "What's <em>up</em> with you, today?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"What?" He asks innocently, except this time she sees the glitter of mischief in his eye.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"You know what. You act as if you're -- like you're almost -- <em>flirting</em> with me."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Who says I'm not?" He lobs the serve boldly back at her. "Somethin' wrong with it?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol fixes him with a wide, blue stare and her mouth drops open.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A loud metallic clatter from outside startles them both.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Sounded like the bike fell over," Daryl says, ducking around her and heading toward the front door, Carol following close behind.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The bike has fallen over, knocked to the ground by a herd of a dozen feral hogs now milling around it and trying to get at the food in the panniers. The hogs are grunting and slobbering all over the leather bags. The pigs seem oblivious to the presence of humans, and ignore them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Look at all those hams and sides of bacon," Daryl says in admiration. "You wanna take some pigs? Be worth it to come back with a wagon. Weather's cool enough now, meat can hang here a few days, if we wrap it t'keep the bugs off."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol is all for feeding the community, especially if they can harvest several large animals at once. She sheaths her knife and slowly slings her bow from her back and plucks an arrow from the quiver over her shoulder. Daryl has a bolt ready and they draw down on the two biggest hogs in the bunch, and let fly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The hogs they hit let out loud squeals and bolt when the arrows connect, but don't get far before they start dying. The rest of the herd flies into a frenzy, the boars champing their jaws and roaring in rage. They turn and fix their angry eyes on Carol and Daryl, and the bristles along the top of their backs stand straight up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Fuck me sideways," Daryl says in alarm. He takes a step back toward the porch, quickly reloading the crossbow and shoots another, smaller hog just as Carol looses her second arrow and hits a fourth. The first two they shot are wobbling in weak circles now and bleeding out into the gravel. The squeals of the newly wounded pigs mingle with those of their angry brethren and Carol and Daryl exchange a glance of concern. They reload and shoot the second pair of hogs again and their squeals abruptly stop.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The biggest boar, a shaggy beast with long, yellow tusks, immediately trots over to the nearest dead pig and starts ripping at its belly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Lovely," Carol sighs. "I forgot that pigs are cannibals." She slings her bow on her back and draws the loaded .357 from her waistband. Daryl glances at the gun and Carol says, "Oh, please. Those things screamed loud enough to bring every walker for miles. A couple gunshots aren't going to make much difference."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Daryl draws both his knives and they walk back toward the bike together.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The hogs grunt suspiciously at their approach, then one of the boars squares its feet and faces off against them, rumbling a challenge. Carol shoots it between the eyes and it drops dead in its tracks. The boom of the pistol is surprisingly loud.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Most of the remaining hogs startle and bolt at the gunshot except for the big boar snacking on its downed brethren. It turns and rushes Daryl faster than he imagined a pig could move. At the same instant one of the big sows comes at them from the opposite direction.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol takes the sow down with another bullet. Daryl dodges the boar and stabs it deep between the ribs as it passes him. The boar roars and blood spurts from the fatal wound in its side. It pivots, swinging its head viciously at Daryl's leg, and it's tusk slashes the meat of his calf open nearly to the bone. He screams in pain and drops to the ground.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol is focused on the sow, and Daryl's agonized cry tears through her like a ripsaw. She whips around to see him struggling and failing to regain his feet and clutching at his lower right leg, the big boar spraying blood everywhere, flopping and dying nearby. Daryl's pants leg is already dripping and his hands are wet crimson as he clutches at his leg in desperation. His eyes search for, and find hers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol gives a piercing yell, raising her knife in her fist and lunging at the remaining hogs with the fury of an avenging angel. They scatter and run off, grunting. She races back to Daryl, who's collapsed onto the gravel. He's moaning and gripping his leg with both hands and going rapidly into shock as his blood pours out and puddles on the ground.</p>
<p><em><br/>
</em><em>"Daryl!"</em> she cries, dropping her pack and digging in it for the length of rope she carries. She tears a big strip from the sheet she'd folded and tucked into her pack only minutes ago, then uses her knife to slit his pants leg to the knee. She wraps and wraps the wide strip of fabric tightly around the wound and uses the rope to bind it. The fabric instantly saturates with red but at least it's not pouring now.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"We have to get you into the house," she insists. Her heart is hammering in her chest. She wants to scream, and cry, but she needs to keep it together enough to get him inside where she can safely deal with his injury. The remaining hogs have grouped up and turned to watch them from a safe distance. Carol doesn't like their body language.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Come on," she urges, grasping Daryl under the arms and struggling to haul him to his feet. "Help me. Those pigs are going to come back and I don't have enough bullets in the gun to handle them all."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She manages to help lift him while he kicks himself the rest of the way upright on his good leg, then they engage in an alternate drag-hop all the way to the stairs that might be funny if they weren't so desperate. Daryl leaves a trail of thick blood drops and scarlet smears up the steps and across the porch. Both of them struggle to get him into the house.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He collapses onto the couch with a groan. His eyes meet hers, and his pupils are so dilated his eyes appear black, and bottomless.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>"Hurts,"</em> he groans, attempting to clutch his leg again. Carol slaps his hand away and he clutches the arm of the couch instead.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She shrugs off her pack and pulls out the sheets she'd stuffed back in it. She draws her knife and cuts and rips the sheets into strips, then finds some towels in the bathroom and quickly slices a couple of those up, too.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Earlier, they'd found liquor in a cabinet and left it behind. Now she retrieves a couple of the bottles and hurriedly brings them back to where Daryl lies on the sofa. She screws the cap off one and offers it. He takes it with a shaking, bloody hand and drinks a long, burning swallow, then a second. He coughs, and his eyes water. "Gin. First drink in years, right before you torture me, why's it gotta be fuckin' gin? Shit's disgusting." Daryl doesn't relinquish his grip on the bottle.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"This is going to hurt," Carol warns. Her bright eyes fill with a different kind of pain. "I'm so sorry." He grits his teeth and nods consent.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Do what you need to do," he rasps. Their eyes hold for a long, wrenching moment, then Daryl takes another pull from the bottle, and closes his.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol puts a rolled towel against the inside of his thigh and he holds it in place while she uses the rope and the handle of a wooden spoon to make a tourniquet. The bleeding slows to a dribble. She pulls up his sliced pants leg and quickly unwraps the rope and the soaked fabric from around his calf. The dripping intensifies and Daryl fights not to react to the increasing pain as the blood resumes rushing through the wound.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol knows she needs to work fast. He blanches when she dabs the wound with a booze soaked strip of linen. She wipes the dirt and blood from his skin while he bites down on his sleeve and hisses. The cut is gaping open and her stomach roils at how long and deep it is. It seems to descend into the meat of his leg forever. The gash slowly fills and wells over with fresh blood. She notices the flow of escaping blood has slowed, and wonders if it's clotting or he's just running out of it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"One, two, <em>three</em>," Carol counts down, and douses the wound with spirits, washing out the blood and grit and dirt. Daryl lets out a roar like he's been burnt with an acetylene torch. He kicks his leg involuntarily, flinging blood and vodka all over both of them. Tears squeeze their way out of his tightly closed eyes. "Shit, piss, fuck, goddamn mother <em>fucker!" </em>he swears, when he can finally use words again. He takes another grimacing swallow of the gin.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol presses one of the folded towel pads against the gash on either side, holdingthe edges closed, and looks up into his pain-racked face. "It's too deep, Daryl. If I don't stitch it shut, you'll either bleed to death or be crippled afterward. You might be crippled after, anyway."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Don't pull any punches," he moans. "Tell it like it is."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She instructs him to hold the compress against the wound while she uses the remaining alcohol to quickly sterilize her hands and the suture needle, a length of silk thread and a pair of hemostats from the first aid kit, setting all of it aside on as clean a towel as she could find. The needle's been used a few times, but it's what they have and at least it's available. Carol glances out the window and sees three walkers stumbling up the driveway, attracted by the screams and the shots. They're heading for the dead hogs around the bike. The hogs have already been lightly snacked upon by their remaining brethren.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Shit," Carol mutters, frustrated. She turns back to Daryl's injury.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Walkers?" Daryl manages to ask, still writhing in pain.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Yeah," Carol acknowledges. She spares only a glance out the window at the seven -- seven! -- dead hogs lying out front. It's a waste, but there's no choice to be made.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Gotta get the walkers off them pigs," Daryl said, struggling to get up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Forget the hogs," she snaps. " I need you to lie on your left side. I'm going to have to stitch you up," she adds, reaching for the suture kit she'd set down and pretending a coldness she doesn't feel. "It's going to be...painful. You'll want to bite on something -- we can't be drawing more walkers in here right now." She picks up a throw pillow and hands it to him. Daryl takes it without a word. Carol puts a couple large towels under his leg. "Okay," she says, threading the needle with trembling hands. "Try to lie still."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She'd grabbed a disposable razor earlier when they cleared the house, now she draws it from her pack and shaves the outer edges of the gash so she won't sew his own hair into it. It's bleeding less than before but is still welling up in the depths. On a positive note, she doesn't glimpse the gleam of cut tendons and no major blood vessels were severed, although he would eventually bleed out if the wound was left gaping and the tourniquet released.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol sets about methodically closing the cut. She tries to hurry, but it takes a long time to finish. Occasionally she stops to loosen the tourniquet around his thigh, then cinches it tight again. Daryl is silent in the beginning, but as things progress he's cursing beneath his breath. It tears at her heart every time she forces the needle through his flesh. Every ten stitches or so she pauses to sharpen the needle with a little file from the first aid kit, then wipes it clean with the alcohol.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The muscles in his leg go into spasm several times as she's working and she'll pause, while he grits his teeth and suffers through it until it stops.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the middle of the suturing, Carol stops when Daryl needs to lean over the side of the sofa and throw up. She drags a wastebasket over and shoves it in front of him just in the nick of time.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He's sweating and shaking, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He groans and lies back on the sofa again. "Get on with it. Keep that trash can close."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She periodically rises to peep out the window to make sure the walkers aren't losing interest in the dead hogs. They're kneeling on the ground around them and chowing down. The remaining live hogs are nowhere to be seen. All that meat gone to waste, but she can't worry about it right now.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sewing him back together takes forever. Using a piece of the sheet, she is constantly wiping the blood away, stitching, and wiping, and stitching some more. It is torturous for both of them, although Carol's torment is, realistically, far more tolerable. Daryl focuses on trying to remain still. By the time she finishes, tears are pouring unbidden from his eyes and he belongs entirely to the pain. Carol tries not to think of how filthy the hog's tusks were and what she might be sewing up to stew inside his leg. She can't just leave it gaping open, but she's worried. She's put a good forty stitches in him, not counting the ones she used to hold the torn muscle together on the inside.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The bleeding has nearly stopped by the time she finishes patching him up and loosened the tourniquet for the final time. Daryl's body has wrenched itself into a twisted knot of pain. He shifts in discomfort after the blood flow resumes in his leg, but the wound's not leaking any more than it was before she uncinched it, and there's no sign he's bleeding out on the inside. After she pries the bottle from his grip, Carol douses the cut a final time with the remnants. Daryl bites into the side of his hand so hard he breaks the skin. He's already torn a good sized hole in the cushion on the back of the couch and pulled out some of the foam stuffing while she sewed him up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She scoops the bottle of opiates from her pocket and shakes one, then two into her palm, offering them to Daryl with his canteen. "Here. Take these."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Daryl doesn't hesitate. He accepts the pills and the canteen, his hands shaking and crusted with dried blood, and quickly washes them down. "How come you didn't give me these <em>before?" </em>There's an accusatory tremor in his voice and his hand is clammy and ice cold.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"I was scared you'd throw them up. And you would have," she asserts. "Still might. Have at least another swallow or two of that water with those." She raises her head and looks out the window. The walkers are still dining and there are more coming in the distance.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Walkers're gonna eat those pigs. Gotta stop 'em." He attempts to sit up, and Carol places her hand firmly on his chest and eases him back down. She can feel the heat of his body and the rhythm of his heart beating beneath her palm, and it <em>does things</em> to her. She experiences a fierce surge of protectiveness and determination. Daryl is going to survive this. They both will. She'll see to it singlehandedly, if that's what it takes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Too late," she says, "and you're not going anywhere for a good while." She gathers up the bloody towels and pours the last of the liquor on to a wad of clean linen. Sheleans the remaining blood and gore off his lower leg, then from her hands, taking her time and doing a thorough job. Carol pats the cut dry with a clean cloth, taking the strips of the sheet she's torn up and wrapping them, one at a time, around and around his leg. She's careful to completely cover the wound while leaving enough room for it to breathe, and for the inevitable swelling. At last she's bandaged it to her satisfaction.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The couch and the towels beneath Daryl's leg are soaked in blood and the air is filled with the metallic smell. Carol's sleeves are bloody halfway to both elbows. The thought that all this blood has come out of Daryl's body nearly throws her into a panic. She casts a concerned glance at his face. He's sweaty and pale, and turns away from her, screwing his eyes shut against the pain. She can tell he's trying not to let on how badly he's hurting, but he already blew that facade when he threw up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"The pills should help a little, once they kick in, if they're still any good," Carol offers encouragingly. "Try not to give them back." She stands, her knees cracking, body caught up in a steady tremor. She's quivering all over in her own variety of shock. She picks up the suture needle, wipes and sharpens it a final time and sterilizes it with the dregs from the bottle of liquor. She stitches the needle through a patch of moleskin and puts it carefully back into the first aid kit, tucking it in with the hemostats. Her hands won't stop shaking.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol looks out toward the bike again. Now there are half a dozen walkers clustered around the dead hogs and feasting on them. She sighs. "Walkers got all the pork," she says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Shoulda stopped to run 'em off," Daryl growls. "We killed a bunch of them pigs. Oughta get something for our trouble." He is rocking slowly back and forth on the sofa, trying to deal with the volcano in his leg. "You need to get out of here," he says. "I ain't goin' anywhere, and winter's coming. If you stay, you'll freeze, or starve. I can't even fuckin' walk for who knows how long."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Not on your life," she says. "Nice try, but I'm not going anywhere, either. I'm staying till you've healed enough to leave <em>with</em> me." She leans over him and reaches out to brush his fringe back and out of his eyes. She permits herself to gently stroke the side of his face, and she swears he leans into her touch a little. "You're going to be okay."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"You need to <em>go</em>," Daryl insists, trying to sit up. "Gonna die if you stay." His head spins when he tries to move much. He's weak and dizzy from blood loss.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"I'm not <em>leaving</em> you!" Carol snaps, more forcefully than she intended. "Don't <em>even</em>, Daryl. <em>I'm. Not. Going," </em>she repeats. She turns toward the door. "I should get our stuff from the bike. Try to rest. I need to do this now." Carol picks up her bow and quiver and goes outside, letting the door bang shut behind her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The meat's wasted and belongs to the dead now, but there's no reason to risk attracting more of them. It's short work to dispatch the walkers. Carol is wound up from the trauma of Daryl's impromptu surgery and she's almost happy to have some walkers to put down as stress relief. She takes out three with her arrows and stabs the others with her knuckle duster. They've chewed up the pigs around the bike pretty good.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She goes back inside with their packs. Daryl's lying where she'd left him, eyes glazed and half open, following her every move.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her canteen is empty and her hands, once again, sticky with blood. Carol searches around the kitchen for bottled water, finding nothing. Daryl's canteen is half full but she doesn't want to use it in case it's the last drinking water they've got. There's an old-fashioned wood burning cook stove in the dining nook, in good condition and still usable, therefore it's no surprise and still a relief when she ventures into the enclosed back porch and finds a cast iron pitcher pump at the sink. The handle moves when she takes hold of it and the metal squeaks and complains. She cranks on it long enough without results that she's just about decided it's dry when a spurt of rusty water gushes onto the porcelain, followed by another, then an increasingly steady flow that grows clearer and colder the more she cranks the handle. For the third time that day, Carol washes blood from her hands. At least this time it's not Daryl's.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There's a bucket on the floor under the sink and she fills it with water and takes it back into the house. She sets the bucket on top of the cook stove and returns to Daryl's side.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Help me get you to a safer spot," she says gently, kneeling beside him and brushing his hair back from his face again in a soothing gesture. His stormy blue eyes meet hers and she can sense his desperation. He's trying not to show the degree of his pain and fear, but Carol catches a glimpse of both in his face before he manages to turn away from her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"You need to leave," he urges again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She refuses.<em> "No</em>. Now help me get your ass off this couch." She bends down and pulls his right arm up and over her shoulders as she assists him into an upright position, then awkwardly helps him hop across the room to the doorway of the master bedroom. A gasp escapes him with every impact. He's running rivers of sweat by the time they get him to the bed. He collapses onto it and holds himself up while Carol kneels in front of him and unlaces his boots. The right boot is gluey with his blood and it takes a little while to work his foot out of it. She makes a mental note to wash the boot later.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol peels off his sock and replaces it from a fresh pair of wool ones found in a nearby dresser. She needs to enable him to clean up a little and find something for him to wear that isn't covered in blood, but there are other things she needs to do before dark and both can wait, although except for his injured leg, which is clean and dry, Daryl's still a bloody mess.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Carol feels helpless. She needs to heat water, she needs to fortify this space. She needs to black out the windows and brace the door shut. Bring in their gear. Then she remembers Daryl's motorcycle, lying in the driveway. Is she even capable of lifting it from the ground, let alone moving it to a safer location? Her frustration and feelings of helplessness don't distress her, they make her angry.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She steps up to the edge of the bed and bends down over him. Daryl looks a little drowsy now and he blinks slowly up at her. "Hurts a little less, now. Maybe we can get on the bike and go home," he says hopefully.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"In your dreams," Carol huffs. "It's not happening today." She presses her lips to his forehead because she can and because she secretly wants to do so much more.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>All this time. All this time and all these years she fought off her urges. Now he could be in his last days and she never took the chance. Maybe that's all she'll have left to carry with her for the rest of the journey to her own end. The thought is way too depressing to linger on where there's so much left to do before dark.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"I need to... do some stuff while it's still light out," she says, "do you think I could manage to lift your bike by myself? Push it to a safer spot?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Maybe," he grunts, squinting at her, "but why bother? Ain't gonna hurt it to lie there a day or two. Left it in the bushes for weeks once or twice."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Your crossbow's still out there, and the mace, and the saddlebags. We need all of them." Carol checks her weapons and heads for the door. "I'll be back."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Daryl starts to protest, but she has already left the room.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Domino Effect</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If any more walkers have visited since she last picked them off, they've stuffed themselves and wandered away for the time being. Daryl dropped his crossbow when he went down, and Carol picks it up from where it lies on the ground nearby. At a glance, it's undamaged. The morning star and one of the bags are pinned underneath the motorcycle.</p><p> </p><p>She suspects they're liable to be stuck here a while. People in Alexandria know the general direction they were headed, but it's highly unlikely a search party will be dispatched, let alone that they'd locate this particular farm. Nobody else has, that's why the pantry's full. She has to secure a place for them for however long they'll need to use it. And she needs to get it done while there's still a smidgen of daylight left to do it in.</p><p> </p><p>Carol straightens and contemplates the situation. The light is fading quickly from the sky and there is movement in the distance resembling a combination between walkers and wild boars. She squints at them, trying to make a determination. Whatever they are, they're slowly waddling toward the house, two of them, like short, fat drunks. It's taking them a while. She sets the crossbow down again and squats with her backside against the bike, taking a grip on a handlebar with her right hand and grabbing the frame in her left, then begins backing up in short, scuffling steps, one at a time. At first it's like trying to move a mountain and she feels like all she's doing is grinding her butt into the bike, then the motorcycle's rising from the ground in small increments as she continues, until she's somehow walked it all the way into an upright position.</p><p> </p><p>She throws another glance at the approaching creatures down the road and they've still got quite a ways to travel yet before they're a threat. Feeling proud of herself for getting the bike off the ground, Carol leaves the saddlebags and weapons on the gravel and pushes and steers the machine around the pig carcasses toward the shelter of a nearby outbuilding. It's an old tool shed, leaky and musty, but it will do for now and she manages to get the bike pushed over the threshold and inside. Carol, leans it against the wall. The doors won't stay shut. She finds a length of twine on the ground and tries to tie them closed. The twine is ancient and rotting and comes apart in her hands. She sighs and tears a strip from the bottom of her shirt to use. She's an easy fit, and bound to find wearable clothes in the house.</p><p> </p><p>Carol takes both saddlebags off the bike and carries them inside, then goes back for the crossbow and mace. She takes another look at the big, blundering things coming down the driveway in the fading light and the hairs simultaneously stand up all over her arms and legs and the back of her neck as she realizes with a start they're not walkers or wild boars, after all. They are bears.</p><p> </p><p>Her heart takes off and wants to beat its way right out of her rib cage. Give her a knife and she can deal with any walker. A full-grown black bear is something else entirely. She's honestly not sure which it would be worse to get eaten by.</p><p> </p><p>She takes hold of everything in one big armload and sets off with pretend nonchalance for the porch. It's not far but it feels like a mile. The remnants of the hogs in the driveway should hold the bears' attention and are likely what attracted them in the first place. Carol locks the front door behind her, then snorts at her own ridiculousness. Vacationing with Ed, she'd watched bears in their campground rip the roof off a car as if it were a sardine can. She knows they'll do anything to get at food, especially this time of year. Winter's coming on and they need to fatten up for hibernation. It's life and death for some of them this late in the season.</p><p> </p><p>She carries all of their weapons and gear into the bedroom. Daryl's glaring at her from the bed but his eyes are glassy and stoned, and she's glad. He isn't groaning or crying out, now. He's managed to wrap himself in the comforter and his socked feet stick out the bottom. He's pissed.</p><p> </p><p>"I told you to go," he rebukes. "Gonna die right along with me if you stay here."</p><p> </p><p>Carol casts him a quick glance over her shoulder as she sets the saddlebags down against the wall, and shrugs. "Okay."</p><p> </p><p>It's rapidly approaching nightfall and the world is full of walkers, bears and wild boars, but she still needs to find a kettle and maybe some other things from the kitchen, not to mention wood for the fireplace. It's high risk to light a fire, but so is hypothermia, and it's the only way to heat water or cook. They'll be here for at least a couple of weeks, possibly longer, and the days are growing shorter, colder and darker -- for real -- for the foreseeable future. It's already cold enough to see her breath, and that's inside the house.</p><p> </p><p>Carol returns to the antique cook stove, where she thinks she saw a metal bucket with some wood in it, and she's not disappointed. There's also a carrier full and a wood box by the larger wood stove in the living room. After half a dozen trips she's got all of it stacked in the bedroom. It's getting too dim to see where those bears might be, and she retreats into the bedroom for what is hopefully the last time tonight, grabbing an armload of decorative pillar candles off a sideboard on her way.</p><p> </p><p>**********</p><p> </p><p>Daryl's pretty stoned by now, and Carol is relieved. She thinks there are enough pills in the bottle to get him through the worst of it. He's filthy and exhausted. Both of them are.</p><p> </p><p>She's borrowed his Zippo and lit several of the candles, dividing them between the mantle and a table at the foot of the bed. She pulls out the roll of duct tape in her pack, breaking down the boxes and taping the cardboard carefully up over the windows to prevent any light from shining through them into the night and telling the world they're here. The fire's enough of a beacon by itself. The tape is old and not as strong as it once was, but it still gets the job done. She huddles in front of the fireplace with the remaining cardboard and tears it into pieces, setting some aside for the morning. There's kindling among the wood in the bucket and she's grateful for that.</p><p> </p><p>The flue might be blocked, and if so, they'll know soon. Carol gets a fire going quickly and the ten years-dry wood catches and crackles merrily and the room isn't filling with smoke, its drawing up the chimney just fine and she finally lets herself breathe a little. She wishes there'd been a way to salvage even one of the hogs before the walkers got to them, but at least the food from the pantry will sustain them for a while. In spite of everything, their situation could be so much worse.</p><p> </p><p>She turns to Daryl, and is a little startled by his demeanor. He is lying back on the bunched-up pillows and gazing at her with dreamy eyes, evidently stoned to the gills. Carol grins a little to herself, relieved, and ducks her head to hide her amusement. "Feeling better?" she asks.</p><p> </p><p>There was a loud crash from the living room. It seemed to fill the world.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, shit," Carol said. "Shit! <em>Shit!</em> Please, no."</p><p> </p><p>"What got in?" Daryl asks, sitting up. "Walkers?" He swings both legs off the bed before Carol can stop him, then freezes and blanches.</p><p> </p><p>"No, no, <em>no!" </em>She hisses, rushing over to help him get his leg elevated again. "Dammit, Daryl, keep your ass on the bed. It's not walkers, they're bears. Black bears."</p><p> </p><p>"Bears? You didn't say bear, you said bears... You mean there's more than one? Well, <em>that's</em> just fuckin' great," Daryl moans. "I <em>told</em> you to <em>leave!"</em></p><p> </p><p>"And <em>I</em> told <em>you</em> no way." She wrinkles her brow and casts about her for bear-appropriate weapons, settling on the pistol and one of Daryl's oversized knives. "Need to borrow this." The .357 is loaded with hollow points that will expand and open up anything they pass through, and she's better with it than either of Daryl's heavier weapons. She's less certain of it's ability -- or hers -- to kill an actual bear. She tucks the revolver in her belt.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you have a flashlight in your pack?" She asks.</p><p> </p><p>"In the lid," Daryl answers. "Got a fresh charge on the batteries." Carol retrieves it and the room is suddenly bathed in its blue-white glow. "Tell me you ain't gonna do what I think you're gonna do," Daryl implores. "You gonna do the thing?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah," Carol replies, nodding. "I'm gonna do the thing." She approaches the door as the air is filled by the crash of something large with a lot of glass in it falling over in the next room. She turns back to Daryl and stares him down. "Don't try coming after me. <em>You</em> don't go <em>anywhere</em>. All right? I've got this. Please don't follow me." She twists the knob and opens the door, stepping through and casting the beam of the flashlight around.</p><p> </p><p>A lone bear is inside -- thank god there's only one -- and it's knocked over a big china cabinet and some other large objects. The noise frightened it, and now the animal is blundering around the interior crashing into the walls and furniture in a panic. Carol's heart is pounding as hard as it ever has as she closes the bedroom door behind her and edges around the room toward the entry with her back pressed against the wall. After what seems like an eternity, she finally reaches the front door, unbolts and opens it, ducking behind it like a shield and hitting the kill switch on the flashlight as the bear, just beginning to settle down, suddenly notices and swings its head toward the light and the squeal of the door hinges with a low growl.</p><p> </p><p>It must have crashed in through a window and Carol's not sure why she bothered with the door, but the bear knows she's here now, so she gets a good two-handed grip on the pistol, and waits. There's not quite a full moon tonight, but it's clear out, and her eyes adjust quickly to the darkness. She can see the outline of the bear across the room as it bobs its heavy head, taking in her scent and deciding what to do. It was blundering noisily around the room when she entered, then stopped and fixed all its attention on her. The animal sniffs in her direction again, then starts popping its jaws and clacking its teeth. It takes several slow, deliberate steps toward her huffing and snorting.</p><p> </p><p>Carol can smell it now, and it smells exactly the way she imagines a bear would smell, rank and wild. She takes a step back and this seems to embolden it as it continues to stalk her in slow, deliberate paces, until it's in front of the open door and only a few feet away from her. She can tell it's not fucking around. The bear growls in a low, threatening rumble, then seems to hear or see something out the open door, and turns its head to look in that direction in the same instant that Carol aims the gun at one of its glittering eyes, and squeezes the trigger. The pistol sounds as loud as a cannon inside the house.</p><p> </p><p>The bear lets out a startled bellow and bangs hard into the door frame, leaving a large blot of blood behind, then bolts through the opening and vaults off the porch steps in one giant leap. It's entire body ripples when it hits the ground running. It's bawling as it gallops across the driveway and around the side of the barn, its cries fading as it disappears from her view. Carol lowers the pistol and pushes the door closed, dimly aware that her knees are literally knocking together. Suddenly, she can barely stand and has to grab the wall to keep her feet. She realizes that her pants are soaked with wet warmth because she's thoroughly peed herself.</p><p> </p><p>"Carol?" Daryl's voice calls from behind the bedroom door.<em> "Carol!"</em></p><p> </p><p>She knows he'll drag his ass out here if she doesn't answer. The fact he hasn't already cements her suspicions on how bad his injury really is. "I'm okay!" she answers. "Stay where you are!" As if he could do anything in his condition, but he's Daryl, so who knows? "The bear's gone," she adds. She pauses, listening, and outside it's silent. She wonders what will be lured to their location, attracted by the noise. With everything that's happened already, they'll be lucky to leave this place alive.</p><p> </p><p>A flashlight out in the middle of nowhere is a dinner gong for walkers, but she needs a pot or kettle from the kitchen and the benefits likely outweigh the risk, so Carol reluctantly switches the light on long enough to find the things she's looking for and to briefly survey the damage inflicted by the bear. She heads back to the bedroom with her prizes and her wet pants.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl is, of course, lying sprawled on the floor on the other side of the door where he fell on his way out to help her. His bandage is freshly reddened. She doesn't speak, only sighs, then unloads the pistol and the big blade before helping him up and back to the bed. His leg has swollen enough to accelerate her worry.</p><p> </p><p>"Dammit, Daryl," she says, examining his bandage as she helps him lift his leg back onto the mattress. She quickly returns to the door, closes, and locks it. Her hands are still shaking. Carol senses she's about to lose her shit, as her self-control and outward appearance of calm erode and unravel. It's been a bad day and her blood sugar's low.</p><p> </p><p>"Why are your pants all wet?" he asks.</p><p> </p><p>"I pissed in them," She confesses.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl barks out a laugh, to her combined irritation and amusement.</p><p> </p><p>Carol makes a face at him. She takes the flashlight to the walk-in closet first to find something to wear, and surprise, surprise, there isn't a single woman's garment inside, let alone anything near her petite size. "Great," she mutters, shaking her head. She yanks a blanket from a shelf instead, retreats to the master bathroom and sheds her urine-soaked pants. She kicks them back and away from her in revulsion and they slam up against the door, which she fails to realize is not quite latched, and it swings open wide, giving Daryl a good, long, look at her naked backside from the waist down.</p><p> </p><p>Carol goes about her business, drying herself off with a towel, facing away from him and oblivious to the open door until she wraps the blanket around her midriff and turns to leave the bathroom. He's sitting on the bed staring right at her with his mouth slightly open, like a cat that's caught a raunchy scent and just has to savor it. The expression on his face tells her beyond question he got a generous eyeful of her bare ass. She must be more exhausted and further out of it than she realizedif she unwittingly flashed him.</p><p> </p><p>Carol doesn't know if it's an embarrassment or a turn-on. Their eyes remain locked and her curiosity is definitely piqued. He is staring at her with an expression she's never seen on him before, riveting and intense. Takes her a moment to realize it's <em>lust</em>. Daryl's just high enough from the drugs his reaction time is delayed, and he's a fraction too late turning away to hide it.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, at least <em>you're</em> feeling better," Carol chirps, blushing furiously. "I'm going to find us something to eat." She doesn't know what else to do, and they are hungry. At least she is. She tries not to think about Daryl eyeing her as if he were starving and she was a steak. She's going to be processing that piece of intel for a while. It goes against every shred of rhetoric she's been spewing at herself since forever. Daryl looking at her like he <em>wanted</em> her. She hadn't imagined it.</p><p> </p><p>It occurs to her she should find some pants, but the blanket's holding up fine, and it's warmer than anything she's going to find with buttons or a zipper. If any of their friends showed up and caught them both alone and barricaded in a bedroom with one of them sans pants, they'd never tamp down the gossip... but their friends aren't going to show up. Carol wishes they would. She walks over to the fireplace, careful not to let the blanket dangle where it might ignite, and stokes the dying coals with fresh pieces of wood that flame up to brighten the room. She rummages in the saddlebags for the rest of their jerky, pilot bread, and a pouch of shelled pecans.</p><p> </p><p>There's a water purifier in Carol's pack, and she fills first Daryl's canteen, then her own from the bucket. She wishes she'd noted the time when she gave Daryl the pills. She doesn't want to give him too many too close together, but she doesn't want to deprive him when he needs them, either. She's more than a little desperate to stop thinking about the fact that, even when he's in a lot of physical pain, the sight of her bare bottom affects him and it affects him in a way she finds complimentary and exciting. This doesn't stop her from telling herself it would happen with any woman, and that her very own individual ass cheeks are in no way special to him.</p><p> </p><p>She brings the food with her over to the bed and he's avoiding eye contact, embarrassed about his reaction. Carol might find it amusing if their general predicament weren't so dire. They haven't even been here a day and all manner of hell's broken loose and everything's been catastrophic, so far. She gives Daryl a damp wash cloth to clean the blood off his hands, then some of the jerky and a couple slabs of pilot bread. "Try to eat this. You need something in your stomach before you take any more pills."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl stares numbly at the food. "We're up shit creek with no paddle," he mutters woefully.</p><p> </p><p>"Don't I know it," she agrees, tearing off a hunk of jerky and following it with a bite of pilot bread. She chews methodically, and swallows. "Let's worry about it tomorrow. Can't go anyplace or do anything else tonight." She works open the leather pouch of pecans and sets it between them on the mattress.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl' s leg has bled through the bandage and she's going to have to look at it after they finish eating. She hopes he didn't tear any of the stitches when he fell, but it wouldn't be the first time he's ripped sutures out. She can see his leg's still swelling, and wonders how bad it's going to get. She refuses to consider the possibility that Daryl could die from his injury. She's not about to let that happen.</p><p> </p><p>"It's pretty bad, ain't it?" Daryl asks, catching her expression as she looks at his leg. "Muscles go into spasms off and on. Feels like it's turning itself inside out then." He shakes his head and speaks around half a mouthful of jerky and pilot bread. "It's embarrassing, is what it is. Can see my headstone now. Here lies Daryl Dixon, killed by a pig."</p><p> </p><p>"You're not going to die," Carol says, hating how he seems to read her mind. "I won't let you."</p><p> </p><p>"If anyone could scare the shit out of Death, run 'im off and kick his ass, it'd be you," Daryl agrees, nodding. "This ain't good, though. That hog's tusks were filthy and I swear I felt it chip the bone. He got me deep, and it's hurt worse already than any wound I ever had. Better now. Them pills help." His eyes meet hers and his are full of concern. "We're in a bad situation. Late in the year. No one knows where we are. Can't ride the bike. I mean, maybe we could try..."</p><p> </p><p>"Nope," She says instantly. "We're gonna stay here until you can. Ride the bike."</p><p> </p><p>He scoffs at that. "I need you to live, and you ain't gonna if you stay here with me."</p><p> </p><p>"Ain't gonna if I leave you here alone to die, either," she argues. "I'd never be able to live with myself. And I wouldn't abandon you that way, ever, I-- " She trails off suddenly, and her face flushes.</p><p> </p><p>"You what?" Daryl presses.</p><p> </p><p>"Nothing. Forget it." Carol scoops some pecans out of the pouch and offers them. He doesn't have much appetite and it'd be worrisome, but she knows he's in pain. She wouldn't push the food on him if he didn't need it to help keep the pills down. "I'll heat some water for you to wash up better after we eat," she offers. "Need to clean and rewrap the leg, anyway."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl lets it go and they choke down their dry, meager supper. The awkward moment from before is foremost in her mind and she suspects it's in his, too. How much did he see? Does he know the color of her --</p><p> </p><p>"Sorry about..." he apologizes, struggling to get the words out, still not meeting her eyes. "Didn't mean to stare. You're so... It's like you got... no idea how..." He trails off and stares down at the piece of jerky in his hand. "You just have no idea," he repeats softly.</p><p> </p><p>She's at an absolute loss for a comeback. She's fairly confident his words are meant to be complimentary and it floors her. Carol feels like flames are swirling around her cheeks but she remains in place and works on keeping her voice steady. "I'm sorry, too. I...I didn't mean to flash you."</p><p> </p><p>"Didn't think it was on purpose. That's not what I meant."</p><p> </p><p>"I know what you meant."</p><p> </p><p>"Okay."</p><p> </p><p>"Okay."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm sorry all this happened today. I was the one wanted to shoot them pigs -- "</p><p> </p><p>"It was a good idea, Daryl," she reassures him. "Shit happened, is all."</p><p> </p><p>"Well I dunno why it keeps on happening to <em>us</em>. Just when it seems like there's gonna be... like everything's about to... " he trails off, obviously embarrassed.</p><p> </p><p>Carol's not sure what to say and Daryl clams up. They maintain an awkward silence for a while. Carol cleans up, although there's not much to clean. She refills their canteens and fills the pot with water, raking coals out to the hearthstones and resting the pot atop them. She straightens up and scans the room.</p><p> </p><p>Tomorrow she'll need to lay in a lot of provisions. With the big window in the living room shattered, it's not safe out there at night, and she doesn't like that there are so many windows anyway. Too many places where the light can shine through and out into the dark. Then she wonders what the hell difference it makes, since the smoke will give them away over a far greater distance than any glimmer of light through a window.</p><p> </p><p>She'll need to gather a lot of wood, some utensils and pans and maybe a grate or a grill. Or a Dutch oven with a handle. There's a swinging arm with a hook on the end of it in the fireplace, so chances are there's a pot in this place she can hang from it. She'll need to ransack the kitchen again in the morning, and gather more linens, too, for use as dressings. Carol walks to her pack and pulls out what's left of the sheets she used earlier. There's enough to wrap Daryl's leg again at least twice. She rips the fabric into wide strips, then rolls them up, one by one.</p><p> </p><p>She finds more towels in the master bathroom, and some wash clothes and hand towels. Carol take the now-steaming pot of water off the coals and adds it to the remaining cold water in the bucket till it's a bearable level of hot, then sets the bucket on the bedside table and offers Daryl a towel, and a washcloth. She sits at the foot of the bed with her back to him, realizing she's going to have to fetch another pail of water to rinse in, soon. There's a lot of dried blood. It takes him a long time to remove as much as he manages to. When he finishes, Carol gathers both buckets in hand to empty, rinse and refill.</p><p> </p><p>"Where you goin?" Daryl asks.</p><p> </p><p>"To the hand pump. For water," she explains. "Shit. I need to find some pants."She retreats to the closet again and finds a way-too-large pair of men's pants that she puts on -- taking a lit candle with her and careful to keep concealed behind a latched bathroom door this time -- and holds them up with her belt. When she comes out, she folds the blanket, lays it at the foot of the bed and does a twirl, arms raised like a ballerina. The pants ballooning around her make her look clownish. Daryl snorts, but doesn't use his words. He knows better. Carol arms herself with her own knife and the .357, takes up the flashlight and both buckets, then pauses. She takes a bucket and a candle into the master bath, closes the door and uses the toilet, then dumps the bucket of water into it to flush. It works beautifully.</p><p> </p><p>She goes back in to the bedroom. "Need to use the bathroom? We can flush the toilet with the water from the buckets."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl fidgets, and hesitates. This is awkward for him. "Maybe." He clutches at the comforter. He's wilting with embarrassment but this is also something he's been thinking about, she can tell. She helps him hop into the bathroom, and leaves the second bucket of water next to the toilet. There's even -- luxury of luxuries -- plenty of paper on the roll.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm going to look for a couple things in the kitchen," she says, making her leave so he can have some privacy.</p><p> </p><p>There's nothing amiss this time, thank God, no walkers at the hog carcasses, which she can see shining torn and bloody in the moonlight. Maybe the other pigs will return in the morning and she can bag one for them to survive on. It's cold enough upstairs to hang meat for days, and the walkers can't climb.</p><p> </p><p>She's careful picking her way around the wreckage in the house. The bear did a number on the living and dining areas, also leaving behind several disgustingly runny deposits, one of which Carol unwittingly sticks her hand in as she feels her way through the rubble to the utility room.</p><p> </p><p>Carol prefers to avoid thinking of how long they could be stuck here. It's important that Daryl keeps weight off his leg until the tissues knit back together. This is their priority, and everything else is secondary. If Daryl loses the ability to walk, he'll lose half of who he is, and she will do anything and everything she can to avoid that. She doesn't want to think about what happens if he needs to lose the leg itself.</p><p> </p><p>At the hand pump, she washes off the runny bear shit, then roots around in the kitchen and finally locates the big pot with the handle that she knew existed, and a couple lidded pitchers she fills at the pump.</p><p> </p><p>She makes two trips taking everything back, and on her second return she finds Daryl on the bedroom floor, curled up in a ball and gripping his lower leg in both hands.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>******<br/>I hope you found something here to hold your interest!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Night of the Walking Dead</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Daryl's lying sideways on the bedroom floor, clutching at his leg with both hands and groaning. The sounds coming out of him are low and anguished and nothing she's ever heard from him before. It's alarming.</p><p> </p><p>"Daryl?" she queries, rushing to his side. She can see the big muscles in his calf twitching and jerking violently under his hands. He's clutching at his leg like he's trying to hold himself together, and gritting his teeth.</p><p> </p><p>There's absolutely nothing she can do to help. He's just going to have to ride the spasms out. Carol sits carefully next to him on the floor and strokes the back of his neck gently, carding her fingers through his dark, sweaty hair. Even dirty, his hair is so soft, not quite baby fine, but almost. She wonders what it would be like to run her fingers through it when it's clean and dry, and under different circumstances. She thinks about all the many times he's held and comforted her and how long its been since she offered any comfort to him.</p><p> </p><p>"Sorry." Daryl mutters as he winces and fidgets. He's rolled onto his left side and is nearly in a fetal position. The spasms in his leg are slowing down. They both struggle to get him on his good leg and back onto the bed before the spasms start up again.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm going to get some water heated," she says, getting up and going to the fireplace, where she adds more wood, then fills the big pot with water and uses the handle of the mace to swing the crane around and hang the pot on it. She pushes the crane back until the pot's suspended over the flames.</p><p> </p><p>Carol pulls one of the couch cushions close to the hearth so she can sit there and work while waiting for the water to heat. She gathers the rolls of linen and the measly first aid kit and a few towels. She gets up and goes into the bathroom to retrieve a bar of soap she saw in there. It's dried up and ancient, but it will still lather and clean, and it's something to help scrub the blood off.</p><p> </p><p>She returns to Daryl's side with her supplies. He looks up at her suspiciously from beneath his fringe. "Gonna torture me again?"</p><p> </p><p>"Probably," she deadpans. "I prefer to get off at <em>least</em> twice."</p><p> </p><p>He makes a chuffing noise. "Always gotta comeback, don'tcha? Thinkin' on your feet an' twenty paces ahead of everyone else."</p><p> </p><p>"Not with this, I'm not," she admits sadly. "I need to unwrap that. May I?"</p><p> </p><p>He carefully extends his leg and gestures at it with a flair, like it's a prize offered on a game show. Carol takes a minute to find the end of the linen where it's tucked in, then she holds his ankle and raises his leg high enough to get the wrapping around it on the downstroke. The bandage is red with blood, and she's apprehensive about what she's going to see beneath it. It turns out the stitches are all intact, and she breathes an audible sigh of relief.</p><p> </p><p>"So far, so good." The wound is seeping slightly, but considering he hit the floor like he did - twice - it's a wonder none of the sutures ripped out.</p><p> </p><p>Carol leaves his side briefly and retrieves one of the buckets. She uses a hand towel to lift the handle of the pot off the crane hook. The water is just beginning to bubble on the bottom of the cast iron. She dips the smaller pot full of water from the large one, and pours it into the bucket, adding some cold water until the temperature is right. She carries the bucket over to the bed with a big towel and a couple of smaller ones and a wash cloth.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl hisses when she gently pats at his stitches with a clean, dry cloth, but he tolerates it and does his best to lie still. She gets his leg cleaned up and washes the rest of the blood off him that he couldn't reach or ran out of energy to reach, changing the water out once during in the process. The edges of the incision are red and angry, which is to be expected, but she's worried just the same. She pats the wound dry with a hand towel and proceeds to wrap it in fresh linen strips. She feels better about it once the wound is clean and dressed, but she's troubled by their prospects. It's a nasty injury. Even in Alexandria, it'd be touch and go.</p><p> </p><p>He's trying not to let on about his suffering, but she can tell. Reading Daryl has never been her problem, except he's been almost flirtatious lately, and she finds that confusing. She wouldn't have pegged Daryl Dixon as a flirt, but he's been trying, and sometimes even connects with it. She tells herself he's practicing for a future with someone else.</p><p> </p><p>"Your mind's wanderin," he observes dryly. He's amused by her look of surprise. "Can always tell."</p><p> </p><p>"Mmm," Carol hums noncommittally. She cleans up the towels and gathers the remaining rolls of linen strips for later, and puts a pillow under his leg to elevate it.</p><p> </p><p>"You need to get out of those pants," Carol says, gesturing at his blood-caked clothing. Daryl wants to object, but he knows she's right.</p><p> </p><p>"If you wanted to get my pants off you coulda done it before now," he says, trying to lighten the mood. "Didn't have to wait till I got slashed up by a wild boar and bled half to death."</p><p> </p><p>There is probably a better way to approach the situation, but Carol is too stressed out to think of one.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, I'm doing it now," she says matter-of-factly. "They're going to stick to your skin like that. Do you wear underwear?"</p><p> </p><p>"Nah," he manages, eyeing her suspiciously from behind his fringe. "Goin' commando."</p><p> </p><p>She sighs. "Guess I'll be getting an eyeful, then. Lay back."</p><p> </p><p>"What are you doin?" he queries. "You undressin' me for real?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yes, that's exactly what I'm doing," she agrees, reaching out to unbuckle his belt. The clanking of the brass seems very loud in the room. Carol reaches for the buttons on his fly and the sight of the dark thatch of hair swirling up from his groin to his navel makes her cheeks flush with heat and her stomach flutter. The skin of his abdomen quivers ever so slightly at her touch. She dares a glance at his face and he's watching her with a glazed expression.</p><p> </p><p>She undoes the first button, feeling the delicious warmth of bare stomach beneath her fingers, then goes for the second button. Daryl quickly moves his hands down to replace hers. She withdraws, and holds the comforter up and over his crotch for modesty instead, as Daryl takes the sides of his pants in his fists, shoving them down over his hips and ass to just above his knees. Carol takes over from there and carefully peels them off and removes the pants from his wounded leg last, trying not to brush against his injury with anything. She could just cut them off him, but he's a hard fit, and these might still need to cover him on their way home later, even if they are mostly ruined. She's been secretly wanting to throw those pants out for months. She tosses them into a corner of the room. Daryl's squirming in discomfort less than he was before and she decides the pills had some punch left, after all.</p><p> </p><p>Carol hands him the washcloth, the bucket, the soap, and a dry towel, then walks over to the hearth and modestly turns her back to him until the sloshing stops and he's shed his bloody shirts and coat and wrapped himself in the comforter. She retreats to the bathroom with a fresh bucket of warm water and another towel and wash cloth, after finding clean sweatshirts in the closet for both of them.</p><p> </p><p>They sit in silence for a time, listening to the fire pop and crackle and contemplating the situation. They are safe for now -- or as safe as they're likely to be, anyway. Daryl's not fidgeting too much from the pain and they're both utterly exhausted. Carol barricades the door with a chair and sets about arranging the couch cushions in front of the hearth to make herself a place to sleep. Daryl's watching her from the bed with an intent expression she's never seem on him before and can't define.</p><p> </p><p>"What'cha doin' down there?" He asks.</p><p> </p><p>"Making myself a bed."</p><p> </p><p>"Carol," he sighs, and looks at her hard. He seems to want to say more, but doesn't.</p><p> </p><p>"What?"</p><p> </p><p>"There's room for both of us up here," he offers. "You don't gotta sleep on the floor. Warmer sharing blankets, too. Gonna get pretty cold once that fire burns down."</p><p> </p><p>In the silence that follows, she's thinking of the months spent on the road in the long ago early days, in between the farm and the prison, when they'd slept huddled together like puppies and shared a sleeping bag. Carol remembers how Daryl woke up with an erection every single morning and after several extremely awkward instances, they both just pretended it wasn't there. She remembers wanting to grind herself back against him when she felt him pressed up against her, and how she'd consistently failed to gather the nerve. How awkward they'd been for weeks on end, even after they'd switched to Carol being the big spoon, yet they hadn't stopped sleeping together in the same bedding until after they found the prison. They'd never spoken of it.</p><p> </p><p>"What if I jostle around and it hurts you?" Carol finally asks. "I'm a restless sleeper, remember?"</p><p> </p><p>Daryl sighs. "It'll be fine. Just... find me some pants, will ya? Sitting here with no drawers. 'Less you wanna snuggle my johnson... like back in the day."</p><p> </p><p>They were evidently having the same memory and it doesn't surprise her one bit. "What do you know?" she teases, a little shocked when the words come out. "Maybe I do."</p><p> </p><p>His face turns a nearly brilliant shade of red and she finds this adorable. "I'm sorry, Pookie. I'll find something for you to put on." She's a little horrified she didn't locate him something to wear sooner -- like <em>before</em> she took his pants away -- and equally horrified that he didn't ask. She's pleased with herself for pulling him away from his pain enough to make him embarrassed. Even when he's hurting, she can still make him squirm. Carol gets up and returns to the walk-in closet, where of course there is nothing that will fit Daryl. She digs through the dresser and does find a couple pairs of men's sweatpants. She selects one and slices the elastic at the ankles since they're a little short. Daryl takes them from her and struggles and fusses and finally gets them pulled up while she stands with her back turned and her hand over her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"Done?" she asks, after a period of silence.</p><p> </p><p>"Shhhh..." he replies. Carol whirls around and Daryl raises his hand in a warning.</p><p> </p><p>She listens, and listens... and there it is, a faint rasping and growling. It's walkers. Many walkers. Way, way too many walkers. It's the sound of a very large herd approaching. The dead hogs and the gunshot must have attracted them. Carol wishes she'd dragged the couch into the room to brace against the door, but it's too late for that.</p><p> </p><p>She meets Daryl's gaze and they look into each other. Both of them trying to say so much with only their eyes. This could be the moment of their deaths. They're both brimming over with emotions and the weight of so many things unsaid, and they're simultaneously speechless. Its the eternal conundrum of <em>them</em>.</p><p> </p><p>It's an instant stretching into forever that Carol breaks by bolting away to shove a towel around the bottom of the door to block the light, and blowing out the candles. The room is filled with flickering firelight and their own apprehension. Carol brings him his knives and crossbow while she gathers her own weapons and takes a perch on the mattress in between Daryl and the door. She will die defending him, if necessary. It's not a question.</p><p> </p><p>They are pressed shoulder to shoulder on the bed, sitting upright, Daryl with his crossbow and Carol with the pistol she's reloaded. If the walkers find them in here the noise won't change their chances. They're both trembling with fear and adrenalin. Carol wonders if, after everything, they are going to die together. Her mind whirls with all she should have told him and wanted to and never did. The truths in her heart left unspoken. The depths of everything she feels and has felt for him, always. He'll never know. She fails to blink away the tears of regret that slip down her cheeks as she leans into his rugged warmth and prepares to face their doom.</p><p> </p><p>The walkers' bodies brush and bump against the house for hours. It sounds as if there are thousands of them. They are circling and congregating around the buildings and what's left of the hogs. There won't be much more than bones by morning. Carol and Daryl are both hoping they'll just swarm the carcasses, then leave. Maybe they'll find what's left of the bear she shot and snack on it, too. Pick off every scrap of flesh they can find and then go away.</p><p> </p><p>None of the dead are coming up the steps which is not too surprising, if there's one thing they haven't figured out how to do, it's climbing stairs. The walker that came down from the porch on their arrival had probably turned while it was already up there. The bedroom isn't elevated, though, it's level with the ground, and walker's hands and bodies bump against the window glass as they push up against the exterior wall. Sometimes their fingernails, buttons, or buckles on their clothing screech across and scratch the windows. The noise of their growling is a dull roar in the background, like the ocean, or the wind. It goes on and on until after a while they've managed to tune out everything except each other's heartbeats as they press together and wait for the end.</p><p> </p><p>It goes on forever. At one point in this eternity, when the sheer number of walkers surrounding the house leads them to believe death is imminent, they simply lay their weapons down and hold on to one another. It's an act of desperation, sadness and love. If this is how it ends for them, they're going to go out clinging to each other, not to their knives and bows. Carol thinks of everything she should have said and done and is still struck mute, even in the face of their own looming deaths, she can't speak aloud to what's in her heart. Just wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his neck, thinking if she dies this is what she's taking with her into the next world; the feel and smell of Daryl as she holds him close and the curling ends of his hair tickle her nose, encircled in the warm, strong embrace of his arms.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>They don't sleep, but eventually lie down together, huddled beneath the down comforter as they wait, Carol ever mindful of the proximity of Daryl's injury. The herd continues milling around the house but is oblivious to their presence. After a long time, they accept the probability that the walkers won't detect them, so long as they remain quiet. Hours later, the herd or herds -- a sea of walkers thick as a flock of starlings and impossible to quantify -- eventually breaks up and moves out. They lie there in silence at least another hour afterward, waiting and listening, then Carol rises quietly and rekindles the fire. Every muscle and bone in her body is stiff and sore from hours of tension spent literally waiting to die. When she returns to the bed she sees Daryl's in a bad way. She's impressed that he kept it from her for hours while they were in such close proximity, but he's truly suffering now. She immediately shakes a couple pills into his palm and hands him his canteen to wash them down.</p><p> </p><p>"Thanks," he whispers, handing the canteen back. "For everything." His eyes meet hers, and she holds onto the moment as long as she can, holding onto <em>him.</em> She curls her warm hand around the back of his and gives a tiny squeeze before taking the canteen.</p><p> </p><p>"You can pay me back when you're feeling better," she teases quietly, shocking herself. Apparently her state of mind following a near death experience is akin to inebriation.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl blinks once, twice, then ducks his head, and grins. "A'right. It's a future date."</p><p> </p><p>Carol contemplates his words as she lies quietly next to him in the bed. The world around them is silent now, except for the occasional call of a faraway owl, and the rustle of embers in the fireplace. They don't talk, they just lie there in mutual exhaustion until the pills kick in and Daryl's even breathing tell her he's probably out. She's worried about snuggling him in her sleep and accidentally kicking his leg. She can't tell him, so she takes a blanket and sneaks out from beneath the comforter like the coward she is, curling up on the cushions in front of the fire.</p><p> </p><p>"Carol," he rasps in a whisper. "What'cha doin' down there?"</p><p> </p><p>"I don't want to jostle your leg," she explains.</p><p> </p><p>"Get back on up here. C'mon." There's something in his voice she hasn't heard there before. It lifts her heart at the same time it rips it to shreds. She drags herself and the blanket back into the bed and curls into his left side with her head on his chest as he wraps his arm and half the comforter around her shoulder and holds her close. Both of them are still coiled and ready for the following act, for whatever hell the gods will rain down on them next. Neither of them have been this exhausted since Alpha was sending wave after wave of walkers to Alexandria. This time when Daryl sleeps, it's deep and for real, and she joins him.</p><p> </p><p>It's pitch dark in the room and Carol has a moment when she wakes up. She doesn't know whether it's day or night. She can orient herself by the faint glow of the dying embers in the fireplace, but she doesn't remember where she left the lighter...until she does. It's next to the hearth, where she took it when she made the bed of sofa cushions.</p><p> </p><p>She fights down her panic and claustrophobia, not wanting to wake Daryl, but of course he's attuned to her enough he's already awake. He eases the hold of his arm around her shoulders. "Claustrophobia?" He asks. Carol nods, then realizing he can't see her, whispers, "Yeah."</p><p> </p><p>"Try to think of somethin' else," Daryl urges quietly, and he's leaned close enough that he's speaking into her hair and she feels the heat of his breath andradiating from his body and suddenly realizes he feels so hot because he's got a fever. He's shivering just a little, like he's cold. Her heart plummets. It's too soon for him to be this sick, and it's not a good sign if he is.</p><p> </p><p>She's determined to suck it up. This can't be about her, right now. Carol murmurs and slips carefully out from under Daryl's arm, brushing her hand across his wrist as she rises. She feels her way around the end of the bed and her foot strikes one of the cushions she'd set in front of the hearth. Her heart is pounding in her ears and the sound of it fills the world. She feels like something terrible is about to happen, and she bites back the panic as it rears up in an attempt to consume her.</p><p> </p><p>Carol reaches out with her hands, her fingers searching back and forth along the hearthstones in front of the cushions. Just when she thinks she's about to lose it, she brushes against the lighter and picks it up, flipping the lid back and striking the wheel. Soon she's got most of the candles lit and her pulse is slowing a little. She has no idea what time it is. They could have slept an hour, or two, or ten.</p><p> </p><p>She returns to Daryl's side with one of the candles, and he looks flushed and exhausted. Carol puts her palm on his forehead and he's burning up, his skin is hot and dry. He tries to smile at her, but it's forced. "I <em>told</em> you... you need to leave," he insists weakly. "This is probably it for me. Sort of feels that way."</p><p> </p><p>"Stop it," she scolds. "A horse threw you off a cliff, then you fell on an arrow, then you got shot, and you recovered. Then you were shot by Dwight, and you recovered. Alpha stabbed you and you recovered. You're going to follow the exact same path now."</p><p> </p><p>"I ain't," he groans. "Knew what it was the moment it happened. This is it. I'm done."</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Stop saying that!"</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Carol claps a hand over her mouth and they both freeze, listening. Waiting for the growls and scuffling feet and certain doom, but there's nothing. For several long minutes they remain on alert, waiting for the walkers that don't come.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm sorry," she says, finally. "Just... don't say that. I'm not leaving here without you, and you'll be breathing when we do."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl shook his head. "If you go now, you'd be home in a couple days."</p><p> </p><p>"Daryl, we're staying here <em>together</em> until you've recovered enough to ride the bike. That's it. I'm not arguing, the discussion's done, it's not open for debate."</p><p> </p><p>"You're too damn stubborn," he grouses. "Best plan is for you to go home and come back with help."</p><p> </p><p>She gives him a piercing look. Both of them know full well they're talking about a minimum three to four days, maybe longer, and that's if she can return with horses. Carol won't run the risk, and she'd die from worry in between here and Alexandria, anyway. It's annoying how he keeps encouraging her to abandon him. She supposes nearly everyone has at this point, although to be fair, it was usually through death. No wonder he thinks it's hopeless.</p><p> </p><p>Carol goes to the door and checks to see if the coast is clear. It's almost midday and the sun is shining and the house and the driveway are still. The walkers are gone. She steps into the living room and peers out the window. The pigs are seven red skeletons and the ground looks like a buffalo herd galloped over it, scuffed and trampled by innumerable feet. Carol hugs herself and shivers. She definitely needs to find a way to barricade the bedroom door.</p><p> </p><p>She retrieves both buckets and rinses and fills them at the pump. She's relieved to see that the bear -- which she'd completely forgotten about until now -- didn't get into the pantry, but only lunged around the living and dining area, breaking things and shitting everywhere. It created an extra mess, but the broken items are of no importance, except for the window, and it makes the house appear less likely to be occupied. In retrospect, the bear has gifted them extra bits of camouflage... Camouflage that's worthless when she has a fire going, but she's what-if'ed that to death, already.</p><p> </p><p>It's easier to think in broad daylight and when her heart and brain aren't shrieking to fight or flee. There are things she can take from the rest of the house to supply and fortify their shelter-in-place. There are provisions and wood to gather. If she starts now, they'll be well outfitted and fortified by dusk.</p><p> </p><p>She carries the buckets of water back to their den. Then Carol blows out the candles and pulls down the cardboard from the windows. She'll partially board up the windows -- enough to offer some protection and still let light in during the day -- and use blankets or drapes from another room to cover them at night. She can't deal with the room being in total darkness all the time. Daryl has propped himself up on an elbow and is watching her with bleary eyes. Glancing at his flushed face, Carol remembers the antibiotics in her pocket. Should she start him on them now? Or give his leg a chance to heal itself? How long is too long to wait? Is it even the right kind of antibiotic for his injury?</p><p> </p><p>"Your mind's racin' again, ain't it?" Daryl asks. He gives a self-satisfied nod. "Can always tell." He grimaced and gripped at a spasm in his leg. "Fuck, that hurts."</p><p> </p><p>Carol was relieved to see his bandage was only lightly bloodied. Whatever had been cut in there was for the most part, closed. The situation was still dire, but at least he wasn't likely to bleed to death. Last night she'd been filled with so many different varieties of dread, and it was one less potential horror to worry about.</p><p> </p><p>She shakes out two of the opiates from the bottle and hands it to him.</p><p> </p><p>"Gonna turn into a junkie," Daryl laments, staring longingly at the pills in his palm.</p><p> </p><p>"You won't," Carol says, handing him the canteen again. "You're not your brother."</p><p> </p><p>"Thank God for small favors," Daryl says, tossing the tablet into his mouth and chasing it with stale water. They study each other across the room. His blue eyes are burning and she can't determine if it's from fever or a different type of fire. Something was going on in that head of his. Carol approaches him to feel his forehead again. He's way too hot. Maybe he's starting to hallucinate.</p><p> </p><p>"How do you feel?" she asks with caution. "Are you dizzy? Are you seeing things?"</p><p> </p><p>"You mean am I stoned from the pills? I just now took 'em," he scoffs.</p><p> </p><p>"No, no, I mean... you have a pretty high fever, and you've been wearing the strangest look on your face. I'm just wondering... if you're getting delirious."</p><p> </p><p>"Have I said somethin' weird?" He asks.</p><p> </p><p>"No."</p><p> </p><p>"Have I <em>done</em> somethin' weird?"</p><p> </p><p>"No... "</p><p> </p><p>"Then why--"</p><p> </p><p>"Look, never mind. I just worry, is all. You're cut pretty bad, I mean, you can't even walk." They both contemplate the seriousness of that for a minute.</p><p> </p><p>"Like you said, I've healed from worse," he assures her.</p><p> </p><p>"Still a lot that could go wrong. That cut gets infected? Could be weeks before you use the leg again. That's if you don't lose it." She sighs hard. "We're just stuck here till you can ride the bike."She brushes off her pants and puts on her bow and quiver, tucking the pistol into her belt. "I'm going out to get some wood, see what else I can find we might need for our stay. Be back soon." She forced herself to wink. "Don't go anywhere."</p><p> </p><p>"Pfft," he scoffs. "Very funny." He watches her all the way out the door.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*******</p><p>I had waaayy too many chapter end notes and deleted them. Sorry for any confusion.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Ursus Redux</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The skies look like they're going to start raining before long, and Carol sets out to retrieve whatever she can for the nights and days ahead.</p><p> </p><p>First she raids the interior, empties out what was left in the pantry and cupboards and picks up every knife she can find. There's a splitting maul and a hatchet next to the wood stove and she scoops them up, sticking the hatchet handle between her belt and the pants she's wearing so it's at the ready. The hatchet reminds her of Rick. Everything else she gathers gets piled inside the bedroom door. Daryl watches her from the bed with burning eyes as she makes trip after trip with provisions. She knows it drives him crazy that he's unable to help her, that <em>he's</em> the one who needs <em>all</em> the help, this time.</p><p> </p><p>Carol gathers every sheet she can find for his leg, which should be dressed and cleaned at least twice a day -- more, if she can dig up enough linens -- and she finds boxes of crackers, chips and cookies from some scout-type fundraising drive. This kid must have been ambitious because there are cases of the boxes stacked in a bedroom closest. She wonders how they missed them in their initial sweep, and tosses them all into the hamper she's carrying around the house as a tote. Treats for days. Probably taste like shit, but still edible.</p><p> </p><p>There are other items she's shocked they missed the first time. She's found more soap, and toothbrushes. Whatever toothpaste there is dried and shriveled up long ago into something resembling melted plastic. With the exception of the toothpaste, Carol takes it all, and the extra towels and some of the clothes she finds in another closet that are, thank god, her size and androgynous outdoorsy in the way she prefers. She selects three pairs of cargo pants with pockets, changing out of the ballooning clown pants immediately and transferring the gun, belt, knife and hatchet to the new pants. She finds sweaters, sweatshirts, several pairs of socks, and a heavy coat with a pair of insulated gloves.</p><p> </p><p>She takes drapes from the living room and doubles them up on the curtain rods in the bedroom. She finds blankets and pillows and a sleeping bag that can double as another comforter, then drags a large armchair and a loveseat into the room and an extra end table, and fills as many lidded containers as she reasonably can with water from the hand pump. In case they get stuck in the room itself for days. It's best to be prepared, because who knows what can happen? What's happened already is so far off the charts, and she wouldn't presume to prophesy things yet to come.</p><p> </p><p>Carol stops long enough in her labors to eat some lunch, then changes the dressing on Daryl's leg. She swallows hard and avoids his eyes. The wound is so red it's nearly purple at the edges, and the center is a sickly greenish yellow. She cleans it by daubing at it with a scrap of linen wet with whisky -- another bottle from the cabinet -- while Daryl winces and flinches, then blows on it till its dry and wraps it with more of the linen strips. She decides its time for the antibiotics.</p><p> </p><p>"What's this?" Daryl asks suspiciously, eyeing the fat white tablet she tilts into his hand.</p><p> </p><p>"Antibiotics. You need them." She hands him a mug of water, and waits bedside until he's tossed the pill into his mouth and washed it down.</p><p> </p><p>The fire is dying down and the room cools quickly in the late autumn chill. Carol adds the last two logs to the embers and brushes her hands off on her pants. "I need to find more wood. Can I get you anything before I go?"</p><p> </p><p>"I'll take the last ten years back. Lotta things I'd do different," Daryl says, with a melancholy longing she's never heard from him before. "I'd fix everything I broke," he adds with a catch in his voice.</p><p> </p><p>"We've all broken things," she reassures him. "You've healed and repaired a lot more than you ruined. Lydia. Alexandria. Me," she adds, amused by his startled expression. "You're an agent for good. Don't ever forget that." She offers him a look of such warmth it makes him bashful and he responds with a cross between a smile and a grimace.</p><p> </p><p>"Whatever," he snorts, turning his face away. "Better do whatcha need to do. Since you won't just go for help."</p><p> </p><p>"Already been over that," Carol reminds him. "Would you leave <em>me</em> injured and alone, to go for help?"</p><p> </p><p>Daryl regards her from beneath lowered brows and shows her his middle finger. She shrugs, picks up her weapons, and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.</p><p> </p><p>No walkers around at the moment, and Carol heads straight for the barn. As she suspected, the family's winter firewood supply is stacked safe and dry within. There's a lot, enough to get them through the entire winter in that room if they need to. There's a wheelbarrow and Carol fills it with wood and pushes it back to the base of the porch stairs, then unloads it three to five pieces at a time, carrying armloads up the stairs, through the house, and into the bedroom. After the second armload, she pulls the heavy pistol out of her belt and sets it on the nightstand. Daryl doesn't even look at the gun.</p><p> </p><p>She fills and empties the wheelbarrow twice. That's enough to get them through a day or two. The wood takes up a lot of space, and she doesn't want to stack it on the porch and make it obvious someone's staying, although if they're stuck into winter, that may be unavoidable. She tries not to think about it now and just focuses on getting what they need to survive the coming days.</p><p> </p><p>The skies to the east are rolling with black clouds, and a distant rumble of thunder accompanies their approach. There aren't many leaves left in the trees and a sudden gust of wind sets a flurry of them loose to swirl and float up into the sky. Carol stands transfixed and watches this dance of nature as the cyclone of leaves travels swiftly across the field, then slow, stops, comes apart and and drifts delicately to the ground at the tree line. It's a moment of extraordinary beauty in a time of chaos and uncertainty, and she clings to the mental image like a child wishing on a star.</p><p> </p><p>She unties the strip from her shirt she used to close the shed door, and checks on the bike. For the first time, she notices an array of tools in the shed. She takes all the hammers and screwdrivers and pliers and a saw, putting them in a burlap bag found hanging from a nail. She expects the bag to be completely rotten and fall apart like the twine, but it doesn't. She slings it over the shoulder she isn't carrying her bow on, and packs it back to the house after tying the door shut again.</p><p> </p><p>She initially thinks Daryl's sleeping when she returns, but he's only trying to mask his misery from her by pretending to be asleep. He's rolled away from the door and wrapped himself up in the comforter so thoroughly only his eyes and nose are sticking out.</p><p> </p><p>"Are you cold?" Carol asks, pulling three hammers from the burlap bag before setting it down in a corner. She sets a pair of the hammers on the bedside table. "Might want to hang onto these. Tyreese was pretty handy with his."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl grunts and hunkers deeper into his den of blankets. "We get overrun, we're dead," he mutters morosely. "Ain't no good escape from here. You-- "</p><p> </p><p>"-- need to go," she finishes for him. "I know. You're like a broken record." She straightens up and prepares to go back outside. "I'm never going to leave you here alone to die, Daryl. Never." She puts both hands on the mattress and leans over the bed to repeat it, bends low and speaks directly into the mess of blankets he's swaddled himself in and where she thinks his ear might be so he can hear in her voice that she means it. <em>"Never." </em> She straightens and slings the third hammer through her belt on the opposite side from the hatchet. "So stop asking me. We're gonna make it through this together. What is it Luke's group says? <em>Ride or die. </em>We're ride or die, you and I. To the very end."</p><p> </p><p>"Sounds romantic," he mumbles. "Remind yourself after I've turned and bit you and you're puttin' me down." This paints such a bleak portrait of their future they both drop into a depression of stunned silence. Daryl is instantly full of remorse. He peers out from the blankets, turning toward her. "Sorry. I dunno what I'm sayin.' Talkin' out my ass." His eyes plead for forgiveness. "Be safe out there. Sorry I can't help you none."</p><p> </p><p>Carol leans a little further forward to extend her hand and reaches into his cocoon of bedding to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes. His face and forehead are hot, so very hot, and not in the good way although as far as she's concerned, he's always been that, too. "It's okay. I've got this."</p><p> </p><p>There are three walkers in the driveway and she dispatches them without emotion. Just another everyday task whose horror has faded into the mundane. She wipes her knife blade clean on the final walker's clothing and re-sheaths it as she crosses the gravel toward the shed, looking left and right, then over her shoulder. She's passed this spot several times now so her guard's down just enough that at first she doesn't see the wounded bear when it comes for her.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>The bear launches itself from underneath a flatbed trailer rusting in the tall grass between the shed and the barn, it's head snaking low to the ground. When Carol turns from looking over her shoulder and faces forward to see the animal coming, it's nearly on top of her.</p><p> </p><p>At first, she thinks it's a walker bear. Then she realizes it's head looks that way because yesterday her bullet tore off a piece of the outer edge of the animal's skull, taking the eye and a chunk of the bear's face with it. From the appearance of the wound, it should be dead, but it's obviously very much alive and angry as hell. Gobs of froth fly from its open mouth and deep, growling grunts roll up and out of its chest as it charges her.</p><p> </p><p>Carol has seconds to react and her hand goes first for the gun that is <em>gone</em>, then to the hammer she'd tucked in her belt only minutes ago. She just has time to pull it free and swing it hard into the the bear's snout with a wet crunch as it lunges for her in a sideways strike. The bear roars in pain and swerves away, shaking it's head, then whirls around to come at her, again. With a surreal steadiness, she flips the hammer around in her hand so the head's facing the opposite direction. She dodges the bear's charge at the last instant, swinging the claw end of the hammer with a squishy smack into the animal's remaining eye.</p><p> </p><p>It connects so well the claw gets hung up in the eye socket, and the bear's forward momentum yanks the hammer violently from her grip, jerking her entire body around and nearly dislocating her elbow. Carol trips and struggles to keep her feet as the bear staggers in blind, angry circles, drooling and popping its teeth. She draws the hatchet from the other side of her belt, and on the beast's next whirl around, swings it with all her strength into the center of the bear's skull. The bear is technically dead at this stage, but it's legs still carry it several steps beyond her before the body collapses, hitting the ground so hard Carol feels the earth tremble beneath her feet.</p><p> </p><p>She walks away three wobbling paces, then bends over and dry heaves until her face is swollen, her throat is raw, and her eyes are pouring tears. Her entire body is seizing and trembling with post traumatic shock. She wonders dimly if she peed herself again... or worse. She's bent over, gripping her knees to hold herself together. Her mind's a hair's breadth from total hysteria and she's short circuiting so hard she can almost hear the sizzle.</p><p> </p><p>Carol forces herself to draw in several deep, measured breaths. She needs to get a grip. She should have known that bear was still around. Daryl would have. It's actually a stroke of luck she doesn't have the gun. The noise carries and draws walkers, and Daryl would have freaked and probably injured himself even worse trying to come to her aid. There was no guarantee the gun would have killed the bear anyway, it hadn't the first time. When her legs work again, Carol totters over to the dead animal, grabs onto the hatchet with both hands and struggles to free the blade from its skull. It finally wrenches loose with a moist, grating sound. She wipes the blade off on the bear's dense fur.</p><p> </p><p>They've all eaten everything and she remembers bear meat as being both a little sweet and surprisingly tender. She decides to take some of it before more walkers or bears or god knows who or what else shows up. Most of the food they found in the pantry is comprised of fiber and carbs. What more justice is there than in eating the thing that was intent upon eating <em>her? </em>It's good protein that will sustain them, and who knows when or if she'll have opportunity to hunt, or whether she'll even succeed? Carol's already exhausted, but there's a lot left to do now she's decided they'll make meals from the bear, so she sucks it up and gets to work.</p><p> </p><p>She pulls and works the hammer from the bear's eye and wipes it off the same way she did the hatchet, tucking the tool back into her belt. After surveying the carcass, she uses her knife to cut around the hip joint, then the hatchet to methodically hack off a hind quarter, chopping through the joint to sever it. She grabs it by the paw and half-carries, half-drags the heavy slab back to the house. The bear's not small and the hindquarter weighs as much as a child. She imagines what kind of picture she presents right now. A savage woman of small proportions, dragging home a leg and half an ass worth of meat from the mighty bear she just bludgeoned to death. She laughs in defiance, and at the irony that her most badass moment ever has zero witnesses.</p><p> </p><p>Carol uses her knuckle duster to skin the hindquarter and cut off the paw once she gets to the porch, flinging the remnants far from the house. She feels a pang of regret at her inability to take the hide. The bear's fur is heavy and dense, it was well-fed for the coming winter and the pelt would have been been a bonus with the cold weather moving in. It makes her weary thinking of all the things she should do and needs to do. She's had all she can handle for one day, and that's a fact. She walks inside and upstairs to retrieve a pillowcase. By the time she's slipped the fabric over the meat and pulled it into the house, she's finally stopped trembling.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>She drags the wrapped bear quarter up the stairs, trying not to bump it and not always succeeding. She removes the garments hanging in an upstairs closet and tosses them to the side, using some shoelaces and a belt to hang the meat from a clothes rod. Daryl has no idea what just transpired and Carol has no intention of enlightening him. He'll just freak out on her if he knows. She goes downstairs to the pump and washes the bear blood off herself, the hatchet, knife and hammer, then ascends the stairs again and shrugs off the coat she <em>just found,</em> its sleeves already bloodied beyond concealment. She manages to locate a replacement from the same closet, as well as fresh shirts to layer.</p><p> </p><p>She racks her brain to fabricate a story if he asks her what was the thumping noise when she dragged the bear quarter up the stairs, but she can't think of anything. If her cover's not convincing, he'll sniff out the lie in a heartbeat, and she'd rather not deceive him. There've been lies enough between them, all but a couple of them told by <em>her</em>, and she needs to stop already. She ducks back into the utility room and washes the residual bear blood off her hands at the pump and wipes them on a dish towel, checking the views from the house and searching for movement.</p><p> </p><p>There are a dozen walkers coming up the driveway. No doubt they'll find what's left of the bear. Carol doesn't have the energy to fight them. Anything and everything in the vicinity that eats dead flesh is going to drop by for a visit until the dead bear -- and the remnants of the pigs -- are nothing but bare bones. The best they can do is just hunker down and stay quiet, emanating nothing more of their presence than what they must from the chimney.</p><p> </p><p>When she returns to the room, Daryl remains wrapped in the blankets and doesn't move or speak when she re-enters. The gun's still on the table where she left it. When she pulls the hatchet and hammer from her belt, there's still some of the bear's blood on the handles and it gets all over her fingers. She looks at Daryl and he's still facing the opposite direction and hasn't moved. She lays the tools along the wall and wipes her hands quickly on a dirty towel. She keeps her knuckle duster close. It's the last of Carol's accoutrements she removes at night, if she removes it at all.</p><p> </p><p>The fire's still burning and while not exactly warm, it's no longer cold in the room. She hopes Daryl doesn't notice she now has a different coat and clothing on than what she was wearing when she stepped out earlier. He isn't breathing like he's sleeping but he doesn't seem to want to be bothered either, and she leaves him alone, returning to the front room with the binoculars to see if any other unexpected surprises are approaching. The group of walkers has reached the bear and they've fallen to their knees around it. The driveway in front of the house is an abattoir of bones and blood.</p><p> </p><p>Carol agonizes over the choice of a fire. For the worst predators of all, the chimney is their biggest giveaway. Anything burning in it screams "here we are!" Great for a search and rescue party, the birth of a nightmare if the wrong people detect their presence. She's got a cylinder plus one of ammo left for the pistol, and her long bow with about twenty arrows, and Daryl has his crossbow and bolts. The rest of their weapons are all suited for close combat. Carol contemplates setting some traps along the perimeter and immediately changes her mind. What if people from Alexandria come searching for them and actually <em>find</em> the farm? What sort of reception is a booby trap?</p><p> </p><p>Daryl looks up at her face and and instantly he's on alert. "What's wrong?" he asks, sitting up with the comforter over his head like a hood. "Something happen out there?" Damn his animalistic perception and his attention to her body language.</p><p> </p><p>"Ran into a little trouble. Everything's okay, now." It's the understatement of her life and yet she's already growing numb to her most recent trauma. "How are you feeling?"</p><p> </p><p>"What kinda trouble?"</p><p> </p><p>"Nothing major, Pookie. How are you feeling?" she asks again. She wonders what she's emoting after her rematch with the local wild kingdom. Her nerve endings are still thrumming with tension, and there's a deepening ache in her elbow. She massages it absently and Daryl homes in on it.</p><p> </p><p>"Hurt yourself?"</p><p> </p><p>"Banged my arm up a little. Got my hand caught on something and torqued my elbow. Just need to baby it for a day or two. I'll be fine." She frowns at him. "How's your pain level?"</p><p> </p><p>"Doin' spectacular. Never better." There's something about the tone of it that arouses Carol's suspicions. She moves swiftly to his side. "Daryl?" He looks like he's shivering. She reaches out to touch his forehead through the gap in the blanket, and he springs away from her with a yelp as he jars his wounded leg. "Back off," he mutters defensively, drawing the comforter closer around him. She only touches him for an instant, but it's long enough to determine he's burning up.</p><p> </p><p>"You're way too hot," she says, tugging gently on the comforter he's clutching close to his chest. Daryl stubbornly clings to the fabric as Carol unsuccessfully attempts to pry it from his grasp. Her weakened elbow isn't helping matters. They weave back and forth in their tussle for the bedding.</p><p> </p><p>"Stahp," he says. "Ain't givin' up the blankets."</p><p> </p><p>"Can we share, then?" She flashes a quick grin and crawls up onto the bed -- ever mindful of his leg -- and curls up at his side like a shrimp, facing him. Daryl turns toward her as much as his leg will allow, frowns, and and gives her a long, penetrating look. He reaches tentatively out from the blankets, extending his arm toward her to touch the side of her neck. He draws his hand back with bloodied fingertips. Looks at his fingers, then at her face, then at his fingers. His grip on the bedding relaxes.</p><p> </p><p>She acts quickly. She grabs hold of and wrenches the blankets and comforter away from him. It devolves into another brief tug-of-war that Carol easily wins this time, tossing the bedding in a wad across the room.</p><p> </p><p>"The fuck are you doing?" Daryl demands, as she flings the bedroom door open wide and the cold autumn air pours in. He's cursing and shivering and staring at her in delirium and bewilderment.</p><p> </p><p>"You're burning up, we need to bring down your fever," Carol says.</p><p> </p><p>"Ain't no fever," he scoffed. "You're merciless. Takin' a person's blankets when they're feelin' puny. That's like animal cruelty or somethin.'" He makes a pitiful attempt to bundle himself in a sheet, the last bedding he has left. "S'cold. Come on, gimme the covers back."</p><p> </p><p>"No. Sorry." She moves over and picks up a blanket that was still close enough for him to reach from the bed, and tosses it over atop the others. Daryl growls in frustration. His injured leg is now visibly larger than the good one below the knee and the bandage is tightening from the swelling.</p><p> </p><p>Carol wishes, not for the first time, that one of them had a watch, so she can give him the pills on a regular schedule. She needs to start making note of the sun's path across the sky. It's the next best way to tell time. Maybe it's also time to stop scavenging and fortifying for the day and spend the rest of it in here with him, keeping an eye on him and trying to get his temperature to come down. This is Daryl, and Daryl is everything to her. Sometimes he's been the only reason she's bothered to stay alive. If he dies she might as well lay down and do the same.</p><p> </p><p>Carol approaches the bed where he's glaring up at her in fury and bewilderment. "Took all the goddamn covers for yourself."</p><p> </p><p>"I had to. I'm sorry." She glances at his leg again. It definitely needs a looser bandage, although the tightness of the existing wrap might keep the swelling from becoming worse. Or maybe the tightness itself makes it worse. Carol's spiraling so badly she hardly knows which way is up.</p><p> </p><p>"It's freezing in here," he snarls. "You tryna kill me?"</p><p> </p><p>"You won't freeze. It feels that way because you've got a fever." She ducks around the door frame to check the scene in the driveway and there are twice as many walkers now as there were earlier. They are still congregating around the bear's carcass and Carol is infinitely grateful she took the time to remove a hindquarter before they got to it. She doesn't remember the last time she was this tired. She's been running on three cylinders today and really needs to get some sleep. It's a wonder that bear didn't take her out.</p><p> </p><p>She retreats into the room, closing and bolting the door, and shoves a board under the knob. Then she pushes one of the armchairs against it. Much as she hates to block all the light - when it's already so dim in there -- the audible growling of the dead compels her to pull the drapes and light the pillar candles, along with a few other candles she discovered while ransacking the house.</p><p> </p><p>"Carol?" All the gruffness and annoyance has leaked out of him. "You a'right? The blood on your neck... Is it yours?"</p><p> </p><p>"No, it's not mine," she reassures. She knows he can tell it's not walker blood. It's too red, too <em>fresh</em>.</p><p> </p><p>There's a thump against the side of the house. Then another. Same thing happened last night with the large herd, but she didn't have pounds of raw, bloody meat sitting upstairs and a delirious Daryl in and out of reality. She's surprised he hasn't drawn them with his rant over the bedding. All her nerve endings are on alert as she stands poised in the middle of the room, one hand on the head of the hammer and the fingers of the other curled around her the grip of her trench knife. She positions herself in between Daryl and the door.</p><p> </p><p>If they come around the side to the window, she'll have to fight to keep them out. She should have dragged him upstairs. Should have, would have, could have, might have. All these preparations seem to be for nothing now, and what good are all these supplies if she can't even secure the damn room?</p><p> </p><p>For the first time since she took the bedding and blankets away, she gets a good, long look at Daryl in the sweatpants. With the legs of the pants slit open and pulled up nearly to his knees, he looks like a boy who's outgrown his pajamas. The sweatpants reveal other things about him Carol knows she probably shouldn't fixate on, but she's been curious a long time. They cling to him in all the wrong places -- or in all the right places, depending on perspective. Just looking at him that way makes her throb. She should know better. It would almost be funny if his injured leg wasn't so puffed up. The skin looks taut, hard and shiny. Is it swelling with infection, or bleeding inside? Carol suddenly feels sick and ashamed. Maybe she made it worse by sewing it up, but what else could she have done? It was either stitch it, or let him bleed to death.</p><p> </p><p>"My leg hurts," he mutters. "And I'm freezing."</p><p> </p><p>"I know. I'm sorry." She takes him a couple of the opiates and another antibiotic. It might be too much, but it can't hurt him much worse than what's already happening inside his body. After he swallows the pills, she changes the wrapping on his injury. The whole time he's swearing and complaining under his breath about how cold it is and how heartless and cruel Carol is to steal all the blankets for herself. The flesh around his wound has swollen to the point it appears the stitches might just burst wide open on their own. The flesh is taut and hard and deep scarlet. Carol touches it gingerly, and Daryl nearly rockets up off the bed.</p><p> </p><p>"Pressure's building up inside," she says dismally. ""It needs to drain."</p><p> </p><p>"Fuck that," Daryl objects immediately. "Ain't cuttin' on me or stickin' me with nothin new. Don't you even try it."</p><p> </p><p>"It'd feel better," she suggests helpfully. "The pressure is what's making it hurt so much."</p><p> </p><p>She knows if there were modern medical facilities and treatment available he'd probably have a drain tube in that leg. She's getting tired of feeling so helpless. Just when she thinks the situation is under control, a new obstacle appears in her path to navigate around. Maybe heat packs will help draw the infection out. She has to try <em>something</em>. He's in a lot more pain than he's letting on, and his fever is alarming. Carol fills the smaller of the pots with water and shoves it close to the coals.</p><p> </p><p>While the water heats, she sits carefully on the bed next to Daryl and takes his hand. He's lying on his back now, staring up at the ceiling. He tries not to wince when Carol carefully elevates his leg on on of the couch cushions.</p><p> </p><p>"This is ridiculous," Daryl snorts. "If I was a horse, you'd'a shot me already."</p><p> </p><p>"You might still be rideable later," she quips. "Never know." She wonders if she can stealth lance his leg. It will be draining by the time he realizes what's happened. She glances up at his eyes and he's watching her every move. So much for stealth.</p><p> </p><p>"Daryl," she says gently. "You have to let me open it a little. I promise, it will help."</p><p> </p><p>"You don't keep your promises," he rebukes, drawing away from her touch. "You asked if I wanted to take Lydia and go, and I said no, and then <em>you</em> left."</p><p> </p><p>"I remember," she says sadly. "I'm sorry."</p><p> </p><p>"You lied in the cave. Damn near got us all killed at the border, bringin' that gun. Had that zip tie to put on the Whisperer you planned to kidnap, lied about that, too."</p><p> </p><p>"I know."</p><p> </p><p>"How you expect me to trust you, then," he rails, "when I can't believe a goddamn word you say?"</p><p> </p><p>"Shhhh, shhhh," she soothes as the bumping and growling outside intensifies. "Walkers are close."</p><p> </p><p>"Fuck the walkers," Daryl barks, volume rising. "Gimme them goddamn blankets."</p><p> </p><p>Carol is desperate to silence him. He's increasingly belligerent in his delirium. She studies him, thinking, then climbs on to the bed and edges toward him across the mattress on her knees and straddles his torso. She takes the sides of his startled face in her hands as he's protesting. She can feel him shivering. When she studies his mouth, he runs instantly out of words, staring up at her with stormy blue eyes full of everything he's no longer able to speak. It's as if she put a cork in him, his silence is so abrupt. Carol wonders what will happen if she kisses him. If he doesn't like it, she can tell him later that it wasn't real, that he hallucinated it. She doesn't permit herself to think of what happens if she kisses him and he does like it.</p><p> </p><p>"What are you doing...?" he queries softly, suddenly subdued, his feverish anger drained instantly away. He's watching her with interest, and a little fear. "You're touchin' me."</p><p> </p><p>She's still studying his mouth, imagining a variety of angles to approach for affixing her lips to his. "Want me to stop?" she whispers.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl swallows hard. "Do <em>you</em> want to stop?"</p><p> </p><p>Now what does she do? She's the one who started this. He's obviously out of his mind with fever or he wouldn't so bold. His forwardness would be a turn on if she wasn't so certain it's only because he's sick and probably doesn't realize what the hell he's doing. Inanother life, she'd be brave enough to lay her lips on his and let come what may... but in this life, she's a coward when it comes to touching Daryl. She's gathered the courage to touch him now only out of her desperation to shut him up. If he recoiled from her, she would die. Just lie down on the ground and never get up again.</p><p> </p><p>"Why're you scared?" he asks gently, with genuine curiosity. "You know I'd never hurt you, right?"</p><p> </p><p>"I know," she affirms. "I've hurt you, more than once," she adds in remorse.</p><p> </p><p>"You have." He's the one whispering now.</p><p> </p><p>"I did lie. A lot. I lied to you about the gun. I lied about looking for Alpha. Back when we were searching for Beth? I lied about where I was going and what I was doing, that night."</p><p> </p><p>"I know," Daryl says. "You were gonna run again. You weren't a runner till Rick banished you. Been runnin' away ever since." He's not behaving irrationally now, although he's still shivering, and they both speak quietly to avoid alerting the walkers.</p><p> </p><p>"Can you blame me?" she demands.</p><p> </p><p>"If I'd a been there, never would of happened. I don't think banishment's what you're runnin' from, now."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm not running from anything, Daryl." She's not sure what he means, and suspects she wouldn't like it.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl doesn't say any more. His eyes are a little glassier and Carol hopes the pills are kicking in. She's still crouched over him on all fours like a lioness pinning her prey. She has never looked into his eyes this close, for this long, and it's beginning to make her dizzy. He watches her with a knowing expression, like he just learned something new, and he's almost smiling.</p><p> </p><p>Carol brushes his fringe out of his eyes again and his skin is so hot and dry, he's like the desert incarnate. Her hopes plummet. He can't stay this hot, he'll start cooking on the inside. She strengthens her resolve. She'll open that leg up before she leaves this room again. His life might depend on it.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't ask again at the moment, though. The herd is still close and he'll probably yell when she does it. She would yell if her leg looked like his. She'd scream her bloody head off.</p><p> </p><p>"Daryl," she says quietly. There are still walkers out there although from the sound, they seem to have thinned and cleared out again.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay," he sighs, holding her gaze, "do it fast, before I change my mind."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*******</p><p> </p><p>There is actually a lot of wildlife in present day Virginia, their 2019-2020 state fish and game statistics reported a record number of successful bear hunts. </p><p>I had waaayy too many chapter end notes and deleted them. Sorry for any confusion.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Fear of Feeling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Carol makes short work of opening the wound now that Daryl's consented. She carefully selects an area of the incision where the swelling's the worst, finds the disposable razor she used to shave the hair around the cut, and breaks the little blades from it. She sterilizes one with liquor, then holds it in a pair of pliers, carefully bending over his leg, and one by one, severs a set of sutures about an inch long. The edge of the razor isn't quite as sharp as she needs it to be and the degree ofsawing required to cut the stitches causes discomfort. Daryl curses and bites into a wad of the comforter he's collected in his fist. The wound is leaking a nasty substance.</p><p> </p><p>After removing the section of stitches, Carol has an idea. She takes the pot of hot water and pours it in a bucket, adding some cold until she can bear to stick her hand in, then soaks a hand towel and wrings it out, folds it over twice, and lays it over the wound. Daryl lets out a startled yelp.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, that's <em>hot!"</em></p><p> </p><p>"It'll draw the pus and swelling out... maybe... try to handle it," She suggests, keeping the hot pack pressed against the wound. He grits his teeth and does as she asks.</p><p> </p><p><em>"Try to handle it," </em>he grumbles. "You're heartless."</p><p> </p><p>She periodically dips the towel in the hot water, rings it out, folds it and presses it back against the wound. Daryl barely moves, except at the first touch of new heat, when his body seems to draw in on itself until the flames diminish. When Carol pulls the towel away for the fifth time, the wound has opened where she removed the stitches and it's leaked quite a bit of material on to the terry cloth. She finds a clean hand towel and repeats the poultice until the water's too cool.</p><p> </p><p>"It drained a lot," she muses aloud. "That's good. we'll do that several times a day."</p><p> </p><p>"Feels a little better," Daryl says hopefully. "Relieved the pressure some. Felt like it was gonna explode."</p><p> </p><p>Carol cleans up the mess and wonders what to do when she runs out of towels and sheets. Maybe she can rinse and boil the used ones. She needs to think of something. Lately it feels like she <em>always</em> needs to think of something. A tiny sob escapes her.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl leans toward her and touches her arm. "Hey, you hangin' in there?"</p><p> </p><p>She snorts out loud, he's the one so obviously in danger, not her. "I'll be fine, Pookie. It's just stress. This is how women deal with stress. We cry." She pulls away and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "It doesn't have to mean anything."</p><p> </p><p>"It always means something to me when you cry," he says. "Don't want you to be sad."</p><p> </p><p>Carol doesn't remark on this. She's honestly unsure what to say. He's seen her consumed by the deepest grief imaginable -- twice -- and and if anyone comprehends her ultimate sad, it's him. She sits on the edge of the bed and helps him get rolled back around with his leg elevated again. She pats it dry with more linen and instead of wrapping it in the strips this time, she loosely rolls a clean kitchen towel around it. She'll need to wrap it before they sleep, but it's still draining and she thinks letting it breathe might help some.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl reaches over to take her small hand in his hot, dry one. His thumb caresses her knuckles like a lover, and she feels the heat rising up her neck and face in spite of herself. She's certain she's turning bright red. He gives her a shy smile then ducks behind his fringe. He keeps a hold on her hand, though.</p><p> </p><p>"Anyone can fix me up and get us both back to Alexandria, you're the one," he says encouragingly.</p><p> </p><p>"I'll never leave you behind, Daryl," she promises.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, that's what I'm worried about."</p><p> </p><p>"You wouldn't leave <em>me."</em></p><p> </p><p>He has no comeback for this, it's true and they've been over it several times now, so he remains silent. He's beginning to shiver again. "Can I have a blanket?"</p><p> </p><p>"Not yet. It's not that cold in here, and you've got a high fever. I don't know how else to bring it down."</p><p> </p><p>"You're cruel. A goddamn torturer."</p><p> </p><p>"Really?" She asks, raising an eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>"Really. You got no idea how you've tortured me."</p><p> </p><p>"With your leg, you mean?"</p><p> </p><p>"No," he responds gruffly. "Not talkin' about my leg."</p><p> </p><p>Carol's puzzled now. "Then what are we talking about?"</p><p> </p><p>He studies her in feverish, abject misery. "You broke my heart. More than once."</p><p> </p><p><em>"What?" </em>She's shocked and bewildered, dismayed he's at long last telling her outright that she caused him this kind of pain. "When? How?" Even though she's pretty certain she already knows when and how; when she fucked up in the cave and got his future killed.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes are full of reproach. "You run away," he says. "You leave. Just when I think that... You always leave me," he concludes. "Wish you'd stay."</p><p> </p><p>She's blinking in astonishment, fighting back the threat of tears for an entirely different reason than she was fighting them back just moments before. "I didn't know you took it that way. I never left <em>because</em> of you, Daryl."</p><p> </p><p>"You wouldn't <em>stay</em> because of me, either," he complains.</p><p> </p><p>She gives the hand that holds hers a squeeze. "I didn't know you wanted me to."</p><p> </p><p>"Tried to tell you," Daryl mutters, hanging his head. "Sorry."</p><p> </p><p>"Don't be sorry. I understand you, now. You want me to stay... right?"</p><p> </p><p>"Told you that when you got off the boat, last time."</p><p> </p><p>"Yes, you did," she concedes. "I guess I'm not a very good listener. Sometimes I need to be told more than once."</p><p> </p><p>"When I want you to stay, you keep runnin' away," he complains. "Now when you should leave, when you <em>need</em> to leave, you won't."</p><p> </p><p>"I know. I'm difficult."</p><p> </p><p>"You're like an angel," he says. "You're flyin' all over the place, all the time, helpin' everyone, planning and doing everything, never thinkin' of yourself, and I can't get you to stay put. Don't always wanna share you, but I'd never try an' clip your wings, even if that's what it took to get you to stay."</p><p> </p><p>She regards him with skepticism. "You've got to be delirious. Do you even know the half of what you just said?"</p><p> </p><p>"I do. Want me to say it again? You're like an -- "</p><p> </p><p><em>"Don't!"</em> she cries fearfully, releasing his hand and placing hers over her ears. "It's not true, Daryl. That isn't me. You've got me high on this pedestal -- "</p><p> </p><p>"You were the <em>Queen</em> of a whole fuckin' Kingdom," he scoffs. "No pedestal my sorry, ain't-no-carpenter ass can build even comes close."</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head and stares at her lap, emanating discomfort until he retreats in reluctance and permits her to change the subject. Her head and heart are all jumbled and confused. Daryl just now told her it breaks his heart when she leaves him. Is this how he felt when she married Ezekiel and moved to the Kingdom for years? Did he miss her that much personally, or just her friendship, or is there another element in play? She's so confused. His remark about her flying everywhere reverberates in her mind and she feels like flying now -- flying clear out of this house and far from her feelings of bewilderment, embarrassment and longing.</p><p> </p><p>Carol loosens the dish towel and peers at his leg for something to occupy her restless hands. It's still draining, and she wipes it dry again. She'll keep up the compresses and the antibiotics and hope for the best."I was a pretend queen," she says. "I've always been good at pretending. Sometimes my life depended on it... and I'm not just talking about Ed."</p><p> </p><p>"You'll <em>always</em> be a queen," Daryl says, almost dreamily.</p><p> </p><p>She hears something strange in his voice -- aside from the words themselves -- and when she looks up at him, he's slumped over and wincing. "Don't feel s'great," he mutters.</p><p> </p><p>"Try to rest," she reassures him. "I'll take care of everything."</p><p> </p><p>"Who's gonna take care of you?"</p><p> </p><p>"Didn't you hear? Word has it I'm a certified badass. I can take care of myself."</p><p> </p><p>"If I'd let you take care of yourself in that cave you'd a' been brunch for the horde," Daryl reminds her. "Or blown to bits." There's an accusation in his eyes and the tiniest hint of a tremor in his voice. "How could you even <em>think</em> of doin' that to me, Carol?" he rebukes. "If anything happened to you, I'd lay down and die."</p><p> </p><p>She knows he's just speaking from the drugs and the fever now, but the echo of her own thoughts from the other day at imagining losing him don't escape her. "Nothing's going to happen to me, Daryl. I'm right here with you, and I'm not going anyplace. Okay? Okay."</p><p> </p><p>"Okay," he echoes, clinging miserably to the sheet and trying to warm himself with it. His fever doesn't break, and when darkness falls again he's shivering so hard and it's getting so cold that Carol relents and gives him all the blankets back.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>It's the fifth day and Daryl is alternately clear headed one minute and in a fog of delirium the next. Sometimes Carol can't tell which until he opens his mouth and speaks. His leg's continued to swell in spite of the antibiotics and the poultices she applies several times a day. The purplish red streaking she dreads hasn't appeared on his flesh yet, and she clings to the hope it offers, the hope he can still recover.</p><p> </p><p>She gives him an antibiotic and two pain pills in the morning, guesstimating every six hours or so, and coaxes him into taking at least a little food with them, though he's got no appetite. The opiates will run out soon. It was a big bottle, but at six to eight pills a day, they won't last long.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl's barely eaten since the first morning and it's another warning sign she should have paid closer attention to. Now his skin is hot and dry and his leg looks like it's cooking on the inside. The flesh under the sutures and the edges of the cut are the angriest of reds. The drainage has slowed to a trickle of yellowish clear sticky serum, and whatever infection Daryl's fighting now is no longer confined to the site of his injury.</p><p> </p><p>He's still running a fever high enough to send him in and out of reality. He "sees" his father and pleads not to be beaten by him in a terror-stricken, delirious rant that has Carol sobbing out loud for the frightened and abused child he'd been. He's argued at length with his blood brother Merle and with his brother from the Turn, Rick. He spends a long time searching for Sophia.</p><p> </p><p>Carol knows she's finally growing numb to that loss when her heart doesn't change it's pace as Daryl calls out for her girl for the umpteenth time. She sits next to his burning body, brushes his sweat soaked fringe back, and tries to bring him to the now.</p><p> </p><p>"Sophia's gone, Daryl," she murmurs. "She was in the barn. Remember?" He gazes up at her, flushed with fever, and glassy eyed. "You tried so hard to find her, for so long. You kept on looking after everyone else gave up. I'll never forget what you did for us."</p><p> </p><p>"I'd do anything for you," he says solemnly. "Anything. I'll find her, I swear."</p><p> </p><p>She sighs and reassuringly pats his arm as she slides off the bed. She needs to go check for walkers. Daryl's been hollering off and on and his voice occasionally calls a few in. When the numbers are overwhelming, she just barricades the room and finds a way to shut him up. Carol's spent the last two days boarding up the window and making this space safe and well supplied. There's an overstuffed armchair and a loveseat now, the latter gets shoved against the locked door at night. There's an axe, the hatchet, and an array of intimidating kitchen knives. Carol's lashed a couple of them to a broomstick and a shovel handle with the duct tape, to use as spears, if necessary.</p><p> </p><p>She steps out onto the covered porch. A cold, torrential rain's coming down. The clogged gutters fill and spill noisily onto the edges of the porch and the railing. It's impossible to hear anything over it. The storm from the coast has arrived with a vengeance and it's going to stick around for a while. Carol scans the area around the house and uses the binoculars to check the grove where she and Daryl waited when they were scoping the place out. Nothing is stirring. The world is soaked, and cold, and gray.</p><p> </p><p>Carol takes a brief moment for herself to silently and mentally lose her shit over Daryl's injury. His leg looks awful. She doesn't think she can cut it off, even if she has to, she just can't do that to him. The thought of sawing through <em>Daryl's</em> flesh and bones? Hurting him like that, feeling the warmth of his blood spilling over her hands? Daryl <em>screaming</em>, like Aaron in the tent on the day Enid took his arm? That's a big, fat <em>no</em>.</p><p> </p><p>If it were anyone else's leg she'd suck it up and get through it, but it's not happening if the leg's attached to her Pookie. Even if it means he'll die. So, there is also that potential problem. She vividly imagines -- for the hundredth time -- attempting to amputate his leg and the thought makes her literally gag. It's her line in the sand, she actually <em>has</em> one, and this is it. She can't cross it. She won't.</p><p> </p><p>Carol wishes desperately for a cigarette. Daryl may have some he's willing to share. She returns to the bedroom where he's sitting up and lucid for now, and she wanders over to where she's draped his vest over a chair. She rifles through the pockets with light fingers until she finds a small leather pouch of the hand-rolled tobacco leaves he's used since packaged cigarettes went extinct. She holds it up to him, "May I?" He nods, and she shakes out one, then two. It's probably especially unhealthy for him right now, but does it really matter? With everything that's gone down so far, they could both be dead before the next morning.</p><p> </p><p>Carol puts a cigarette to her lips and lights it. "Want one?" She offers, extending it to him. Daryl takes it with trembling fingers and inhales a long drag, then exhales toward the ceiling, where the cloud of smoke flattens and mushrooms out. "This my last coffin nail, you think?"</p><p> </p><p>"No," Carol says, "I don't think it is." She lights one for herself, then gives Daryl a soap dish to use as an ashtray, and walks over to the fireplace to blow her own smoke into the flames where it's drawn away and up the chimney. "You're really sick right now, but you're bound to get better. You've got a great constitution."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl snorts. "Yeah, right. Whatever." He takes a couple more drags before speaking again. "Truth is, I heal slower than most people. Just complain less, is all." He hesitates, staring down at the glowing end of his cigarette. "The scars on my back?" He raises his face and waits until she nods, then continues. "Took months for 'em to heal. Months. I was nine, ten, eleven. The old man didn't wanna put me in the hospital. Didn't want the teachers askin' questions. Kept me outta P.E., and beat me just enough I could take it and suffer through."</p><p> </p><p>Carol is staring at him with tears standing in her eyes. This is the first Daryl's ever spoken to her in any real detail of his traumatic childhood. She wants to say something comforting in return, but has absolutely no idea where to begin.</p><p> </p><p>"Don't cry," he says, alarmed. "Was a long time ago, and it made me strong. Maybe wouldn't even be alive now if I hadn't suffered so much then, you know?"</p><p> </p><p>"You were just a child," she sniffles. "What happened to you was so wrong."</p><p> </p><p>"Bad things happened to you, too. Did it make you weak? Are you sorry now?"</p><p> </p><p>Carol gives this some thought. Would she be at all formidable had Ed not beaten her within an inch of her life over and over again? She hasn't seen it through that lens, and she doesn't want to. "I think you and I are survivors and would be no matter what did or didn't happen to us before. I'd hate to think Ed deserved any credit for my strength, or your father for yours." Her eyes are pale blue fire. "What they did to us was criminal. It was evil. We didn't deserve it. Any of it. They made us their victims, but they're long gone and we're both still here -- <em>still trying</em> -- and if they saw us now, they'd <em>run</em>. They'd run and hide like the cowards they always were, deep down inside."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl nods agreement and raises his cigarette hand to her in salute. "Amen to that."</p><p> </p><p>They finish their smokes in silence, watching the rain come down in sheets across the window panes through the spaces between the boards. There's a low rumble of approaching thunder. They've been gone for several days, and the trip wasn't expected to be an overnighter. Daryl has the only motorized transportation they know of, and it's unlikely a search party's been dispatched on horseback, let alone on foot. The people back home have surely figured out they've run into major trouble, but they're going to be on their own for however long it takes.</p><p> </p><p>"You scared?" he asks abruptly, watching her face for any flicker of deception.</p><p> </p><p>Carol turns her level gaze his way and takes a last drag from her smoke, which has burnt down just shy of singeing her fingers. "I'm absolutely terrified."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl nods, gnawing on his lip, and sighs through his nose. "Me, too." He turns back toward the window, and Carol expertly flicks the butt of her cigarette into the fireplace.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>Carol's almost sorry she took that hindquarter off the bear. She's sliced several pounds of it into as thin of strips as she can, then hung them on clothes hangers on a shower rod suspended in front of the fireplace mantel. Daryl gives her the third degree when he's clear headed enough to notice the rows and rows of drying meat.</p><p> </p><p>"You bagged a deer?" he asks, frowning. She hasn't left his side long enough to stalk, shoot and field dress anything as large as a Virginia whitetail, let alone drag it back to the house, and they both know it. The meat is too dark in color to be pork.</p><p> </p><p>Carol hesitates, standing in front of the fireplace with a loaded hanger in her hands. Her back is to him, and she suspects he deliberately chose this moment to ask, making it easier for her to lie. Daryl is always considerate and in the most subtle of ways. His efforts are often so far beneath the radar they escape most people's detection, but never hers.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl's lied to her twice that she's certain of, and one was the lie that saved her sanity and maybe even her life. Carol doesn't begrudge him for his reluctance to break her heart and draw her back into the fight when she'd made it clear all she wanted to do was to curl up in a ball and lick her wounds. To lie on the couch reading cheesy romance novels by lantern light, pretending no one and nothing else existed in the world... until that noble boy, Benjamin, bled out and died on her dining table and she couldn't live inside that particular fantasy any longer.</p><p> </p><p>There are plenty of other ways she's still pretending, but lying outright to Daryl isn't going to be one of them, not any more.</p><p> </p><p>"That bear I shot in the house?" she reminds him, still facing the flames. "It wasn't quite dead, yet." She can feel the weight in his silence behind her, the clamor that's going on inside his head so loud it's leaking out into the atmosphere. "It's dead now. I took off a hindquarter." At last she's built up whatever it is she needs to turn around and meet his eyes... and of course, they pierce through her like blue lasers.</p><p> </p><p>"What happened with the bear?" he asks. Daryl's terrible at faking anything, and she knows he can tell she's holding back while he's trying to be gentle coaxing the truth from her.</p><p> </p><p>"It rushed me from between the barn and the shed," she confesses, watching and waiting for a change in his face. "I didn't have the gun, but it was good. The noise draws too many walkers, and you'd have hurt yourself -- or worse -- coming to help me, and it was over long before you could have gotten there."</p><p>
  
</p><p>"Jesus, Carol," he says. "That why there's blood on the hammer and that hatchet?" He gestures with his hand at the makeshift weapons she'd set by the door. She remembers taking them from her belt and getting her hands all sticky, and realizes she must have been in shock to bring them in like that without rinsing them at the pump, first. Then she remembers she <em>did</em> wash them off, but just the heads and not the handles.</p><p> </p><p>"Hmm. Yeah. I should have cleaned those better, huh?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah. You should've." There is no judgement in his eyes, only concern. "You okay with whatever happened out there?"</p><p> </p><p>"I'll tell you everything, all of it, Daryl, just... don't freak out."</p><p> </p><p>"You know it sorta freaks me out when you warn me not to freak out, right?"</p><p> </p><p>"I know," she says. "Now you're aware where the meat came from, I'm going to run upstairs and bring the rest of it down here to cut up to dry. I'll tell you all about it when I get back, okay?"</p><p> </p><p>"You better," he warns. "You're pretty good at changin' the subject when you don't wanna talk about something."</p><p> </p><p>"And you're not?" she queries.</p><p> </p><p>"I'll talk about anything you want to talk about," Daryl assures her. "I'm your best friend, right?" She rolls her eyes at him. "If you can't tell <em>me,"</em> he continues, "who else is there? The King left, he's gone."</p><p> </p><p>She pretends not to notice when he refuses to say Ezekiel's name. It's such a good question that she has no answer for. It's not intended to be answered. She has to set him straight on one thing, though.</p><p> </p><p>"I need you to know something. Me with Ezekiel? It's over. Over. Nobody did anything wrong, he's just not the one."</p><p> </p><p>"You stayed married a long time for him not bein' the guy," Daryl observes dryly.</p><p> </p><p>"There was a boy," Carol confesses, "He needed a mother and I wanted to be a mother, again. Things got complicated, really fast. And I wasn't miserable. A lot of the time, I thought I was happy." Her declaration sparks a flicker of pain in his features. "We weren't -- <em>right</em> -- together, though. After Henry was -- gone -- there wasn't any reason for me to stay."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm real sorry about Henry," Daryl offers tentatively. "He didn't deserve what happened. Had a good attitude. Smart. Trusted a little too much, best people always do. I liked him a lot, he reminded me of you... except for the trusting part." Carol's eyes brim quickly, but they aren't tears of pain. She offers a smile to let him know this, and quickly swipes her face with her sleeve. "He worshipped the ground you walked on," Daryl added. "He wanted to make you proud. I should'a told you that before."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm glad you got to know him," Carol sniffs, still wiping away the wetness that insists on spilling over.</p><p> </p><p>"He's the one said you called me your best friend," he offers shyly, ducking his head to hide his own eyes. "That true?"</p><p> </p><p>She sits on the edge of the mattress and takes one of his hands in hers. "It is, and you are."</p><p> </p><p><em>"Just</em> friends... right?" He sounds sad and hopeful at the same time.</p><p> </p><p>Her pulse is in her throat, and she feels like she might gag on it. "As opposed to...?" she croaks, horrified at how her voice sounds and how he might take her nervousness the wrong way.</p><p> </p><p>She can tell he <em>wants</em> to speak, but he's paralyzed. He's fighting to hold her gaze and not look away. "You know," he says, finally. His voice is so low he's nearly whispering.</p><p> </p><p>The subject's arisen so abruptly and Carol has no time to think. She can't think. She can't breathe. How are they talking about this <em>now?</em> He's sick and feverish, and he's high and he can't possibly mean it. She's horrified by how frightened she is. This shouldn't be scary, but it's even more terrifying that fighting a full grown black bear to the death with a hammer and a hatchet. It's not something she can defeat and kill and walk away from, and she doesn't want to. She just isn't prepared to handle it. Carol knows she needs to speak, and soon, before his courage evaporates. This can't be easy for Daryl, either, and who knows how he's interpreting the expressions vying for dominance across her face?</p><p> </p><p>"I guess it depends on what we want," she offers carefully.</p><p> </p><p>"I don't know what that means," he says.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm not sure what you're asking."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl shakes his head, refusing her the dodge. "Yeah, you are."</p><p> </p><p>"This is hard," Carol manages to say. "I -- you -- <em>we</em> -- "</p><p> </p><p>Daryl surges ahead. "Whatever you want us to be is fine by me. Just want to be with you -- not like <em>that</em> -- I mean -- no, that's <em>not</em> what I mean --" He's turned nearly purple he's blushing so hard, and he buries his face in his free hand. "I suck at this so fuckin' bad. M'sorry. You deserve better."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, <em>Daryl</em>," she says, heartfelt. "You're a man of honor. The best kind. No one gets any 'better' than that."</p><p> </p><p>His smoky gaze rises hopefully to hers. "Yeah?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah."</p><p> </p><p>Their brief moment of mutual comfort and bonding unravels into an awkward silence within the space of a minute. Neither of them knows what to do for the next move. They're poised on the brink of a precipice where they need to either take a leap or retreat back into the safety of their shells. Both are fighting the urge to flee although Daryl's physically the captive audience here. The desire to run away from the tension in the moment is strong, and Carol knows if they break their gaze without speaking again, the opportunity to continue forward, together, is gone.</p><p> </p><p>"I want to run away," she confesses. "Not from <em>you</em> specifically, I just... want to run... from anything that makes me <em>feel."</em></p><p> </p><p>"I know," he acknowledges. "I get it." He still has a hold on her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. "You could try running to <em>me</em>, you know. Instead of away. I mean, I want you to run away now, to save your own life, but you ain't gonna and I get that. Just mean, if we both make it through, you could... run to me. Any time. I want you to. Wish you would." He's so sincere it clutches her heart.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm not sure what to --"</p><p> </p><p>"Don't. You don't gotta say nothin.' Just think about it." He loosens his hold on her hand, in case she chooses to retreat. Always leaving her an out, an open door to escape through. Doesn't want to make her feel caught, or held, or trapped. It occurs to her just how well he knows her, and how much effort he makes, has always made, to accommodate her quirks and habits. He still goes out of his way to ensure she's aware he accepts her just as she is, and in spite of all the damage she's done. It's the closest thing she's known to unconditional love.</p><p> </p><p>Carol forces a sunny smile and tilts her head toward the door. "I need to go upstairs and get that bear leg," she says. "Be right back." She tucks the pistol in the back of her pants. Her knife is in its scabbard. She probably doesn't need to be armed to go up the stairs, but this place has brought so much trauma to them already she isn't taking any more chances.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>**I had waaayy too many chapter end notes and deleted them. Sorry for any confusion.**</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Desperation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Carol has dragged a chair next to the bed and she and Daryl both cut thin slices of meat from the bear leg to dry in front of the fire. She'd rather do it herself, but he hates feeling useless and she won't deprive him of the opportunity to help, or of something else to think about besides his damaged leg. Whenever she suspects he's getting too loopy from the fever or the drugs she takes his knife away, and he scolds her for treating him like a child.</p><p> </p><p>Except for a couple of bad moment when she thought he'd pass out, he's been mostly cognizant and clear-headed, and not in as much pain as before she began the hot compresses. Carol did it again as soon as she'd returned downstairs, and that combined with the most recent pills kicking in has Daryl acting more like himself than since incurring his injury. He still has a fever, she can see it in his flushed, sweaty face and some of the things he's said are strange and suspiciously out of character. Like their talk about their feelings and their relationship. She'd been hopeful at the time, but wonders now whether he even remembers it.</p><p> </p><p>"You're awful quiet," he observes, expertly cutting off a long, thin slice of purplish red meat. They've got the bear quarter on a table between them and have each removed a slab to cut into strips for drying. "Got somethin' on your mind?"</p><p> </p><p>"What you said earlier... " she began, hesitant.</p><p> </p><p>"What about it?"</p><p> </p><p>"Did you mean it?"</p><p> </p><p>"Did you?"</p><p> </p><p>They're at an impasse. She doesn't regret the conversation they had, but maybe he does. Maybe he's completely forgotten what he said. Or maybe he thinks they said something other than what they did. She would sit there and speculate clear to the grave if he didn't wrench her back into the present.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl stops cutting and fixes his gaze on hers, forcing her to stop what she's doing, too. "Last time I said somethin' I didn't mean was when I yelled at you on the farm."</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't have a comeback for this. She remembers the harsh words he'd spoken. They've come so far together, grown so much together, survived so much together. Their lives are so intricately entangled and yet here they are over a decade later, with a table and a bear leg between them and no closer to a resolution.</p><p> </p><p>Carol <em>wants</em> to run to him. She wants to tell him everything. She just can't. She doesn't even know why not, any more. It's just not what she does or how she is. She can't run toward what she wants most and that's the most pathetic thing of all. Running <em>toward</em> things has never really been her modus operandi, except on the day she ran toward her zombiefied child as Sophia stumbled out of the barn, or when she'd chased the skin queen whose death she'd desired and lusted for beyond her own last shred of humanity. She still thinks of the wake of destruction she wrought in her pursuit of vengeance, and the personal price Daryl paid for it. Not only with what happened to Connie -- even though he says it wasn't like that -- but the damage to his own reputation for standing unwaveringly at Carol's side.</p><p> </p><p>It occurs to her she's never run toward Daryl, even though he's begged her to. Not once, unless you count when she'd come back to Alexandria, and then she'd stayed just long enough to catch the first boat out. She'd run to his camp, but that was long after he'd abandoned it and with full knowledge he wouldn't be there. She flees from what she wants and loves and run toward the things that fill her soul with horror and pain and despair.</p><p> </p><p>"Daryl?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah?"</p><p> </p><p>"Why not Connie?"</p><p> </p><p>He stops carving strips off the roast in front of him. "Why not? Ain't nothin' between me an' her that ain't the same as what's between me and Maggie, or Michonne, or... or any other woman that ain't -- " He catches himself, "-- any other woman in the settlements. That's why not. We went after Lydia and Henry together, she's smart, a capable fighter. We got each other's backs, sure, but she's just a friend."</p><p> </p><p>"A best friend?" Carol queries.</p><p> </p><p>"Nah, not that kinda friend." Daryl grimaces. "Already got a best friend, and the one's more'n enough. She's annoying as hell, sometimes. Hard headed and don't hear nothin' she don't wanna."</p><p> </p><p>"She sounds like a real pain in the ass."</p><p> </p><p>"Hell yeah, she is. Worth it, though, even if she don't seem to think so." Daryl returns to the task of carving and keeps his eyes on the knife. "She takes on way too much shit at once. Does a lot alone when she could use a little help. Can save a whole community all by herself, though. She's got no idea how amazin' she is." He dares to glance up and she's stopped cutting the meat and is just sitting there watching him and listening.</p><p> </p><p>"She sounds pretty awesome," Carol says. How long is she going to play this game? She's not certain, but stepping out into the open and shining the bright light of day on her true feelings is still too frightening to contemplate. She knows he's talking about her and yet, he can't possibly be.</p><p> </p><p>"She's the best," Daryl agrees. "Drives me nuts sometimes. She's stubborn. Gets wrapped around an idea and you can't tug her loose. She'll find a way to take care of a situation, though. She's good, like that."</p><p> </p><p>"Mmm," she hums. "I hear she has a pretty supportive best friend of her own. Someone other people look up to while she's busy pissing everyone else off. Someone who always has her back, especially when she's being an idiot."</p><p> </p><p>He chuffs out a laugh. "Is that so?"</p><p> </p><p>Neither can bring themselves to maintain eye contact at the moment, but still share shy smiles and quiet laughter across the diminishing mountain of meat on the table between them.</p><p> </p><p>"I think she's lucky to have him around," Carol continues, "he's been there for her more times than she can count. Gotta be at least halfway responsible for all that greatness you attribute to her."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl snorts. "Yeah, whatever."</p><p> </p><p>Carol rises from the chair she's dragged to the side of the bed. "Hey, we've got enough here to string another line." She's discovered a big coil of clothesline in the utility room and they've utilized it in addition to the shower rod contraption to string the little tongues of meat back and forth in front of the hearth. Those sections of the line too far from the fire for meat drying serve as regular clothesline for the items Carol's attempted to clean, including Daryl's worn and patched pants, which soaked in the tub for two days to loosen all the gummed-up blood before she scrubbed them out. She swears she's going to burn them to ash when they get back to Alexandria.</p><p> </p><p>She stands up and takes the bowl they've filled and walks over to the fire where she carefully drapes strips of meat over the lines for drying, then rotates the older pieces. They are dehydrating the meat so it will last longer, but it still must be thoroughly cooked later to kill the parasites before consumption. It's just one more instance where Carol feels like she's running in place as fast as she can. She's getting used to the sensation.</p><p> </p><p>The rain is sticking around but there's not one single leak, and they're grateful the house still has a solid roof. Carol goes outside at least twice a day to scan the area for trouble and to retrieve firewood. She's boiled and sterilized all the linen and smaller towels and only ignited the edges of a couple pieces of fabric in the process.It's slow going because the Dutch oven will only hold so much material.</p><p> </p><p>The bandages and compresses drip dry on the outer ends of the clotheslines Carol hung by driving big nails from the barn into the wall studs, then tying the lines on them. They can't let any one line get too heavy or it will pull the nails straight. There's enough of it to cross the room six times, and it sags just right where it passes in front of the fireplace, and the heat wafts up and around anything hanging in the middle. The bear meat could be their only real protein for weeks, maybe the duration of their stay, and Carol no longer regrets taking the time to claim it.</p><p> </p><p>When she wipes her hands with a damp cloth and picks up her knife again, shenotices he's stopped carving and is watching her expectantly. "So?" he asks.</p><p> </p><p>"So...?"</p><p> </p><p>"The bear. What happened with the bear?" He asks.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh. The bear. Yeah. Well, I killed it."</p><p> </p><p>"Obviously. I mean, we're cuttin' some of it up right here. You said it rushed you."</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah. So I had a split second to think and I grabbed the hammer. I hit it a couple times with the hammer and then once with the hatchet, and that was it. And a live, attacking bear became a dead bear."</p><p> </p><p>"Just like that. Hmm." He's studying her like he knows she's holding back thedetails when she'd agreed to give them up. "Wasn't there another bear?"</p><p> </p><p>Carol has completely forgotten about this. "There was. The first night. Only the one came inside though, and that's the one I killed. I haven't seen the other at all."</p><p> </p><p>Now she's wondering if it's also still lurking about close by. She crosses the yard every day and hasn't seen signs of anything coming through except walkers. Even the feral hogs haven't returned. The hard rain seems to be a deterrent to anything with a pulse. She's hoped to spot a deer but there's been nothing, and she won't leave the property long enough to conduct a serious hunt. Not yet. There's plenty of the bear meat and what they found in the pantry to sustain them a while. At least until Daryl's capable of fighting off any potential marauders or walkers and Carol can then venture afield.</p><p> </p><p>"That's pretty badass," Daryl muses. "You keep doing superhero shit, Im'a have to up my game after gettin' back on my feet."</p><p> </p><p>His face is flushed with fever, but he's kept his head for a while and Carol thinks he may be finally getting over the hump. She takes a bucket of dirty water for flushing and a candle into the bathroom and relieves herself. She's thinking about how she can use some of the bear meat and what was in the pantry to make them a decent dinner when she comes back out and goes straight to the utility room to rinse and refill the bucket. She stops to survey the property from the window the bear broke. There are no walkers, no wildlife, only a slow, steady drizzle of rain.</p><p> </p><p>Carol returns to the bedroom with the bucket and fills the pot by the fire for more hot water for compresses, hangs it on the crane hook and suspends it over the flames. She adds another piece of wood. As she's gathering the dry towels and linens from the clotheslines, she hears a peculiar sound in the background that's somehow strangely familiar, almost a gurgling noise. She throws a glance over her shoulder to see how Daryl's doing, just in time to catch him thrashing in the worst phase of the seizure racking his body.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>"No, no, <em>no, no, no!"</em> Carol wails, searching for something to stick in his mouth so he doesn't sever or badly bite his tongue. There's an old magazine under the nightstand and she snatches it up, rolls it, and struggles to get it between his gnashing teeth. She can only imagine what the seizure is doing to the muscle tissue in his leg. Tears spill from her eyes, unbidden and unstoppable, and she tries to keep him from falling off the bed. She bursts into sobs and dissolves into a blubbering, snotty mess as the weight of <em>everything</em> comes crashing down on her all at once.</p><p> </p><p>Carol's had experience with seizures, both in her life before the Turn and after, and it's all that keeps her from completely losing her mind when Daryl experiences his. She knows all she can do is attempt to prevent him from hurting himself during, and to not hold him down by force. She's never felt more helpless or desperate as she watches his body jerk and jump and tremble. It seems to last an eternity. Her heart's gone through a shredder a thousand times over when he finally sinks back against the mattress and stops twitching.</p><p> </p><p>When he opens his eyes, it's to the sight of her tear-coursed, puffy face and running nose, which confuse him.</p><p> </p><p>"What is it?" he asks. "Bears? Walkers?"He reaches up and brushes her cheek. Carol's certain so many tears have been pouring down her face it must be streaked with salt, by now.</p><p> </p><p>"No," she sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and taking in a long, shuddering breath. "Neither." She's sitting in the chair, pulled close to the bed and clutching his arm in both her hands. "Do you remember anything?"</p><p> </p><p>"Like that giant pig that tried to kill me? Fuck yeah, I remember."</p><p> </p><p>"What do you remember after that?"</p><p> </p><p>Daryl starts to speak again, then frowns, and runs a puzzled hand through his hair once, twice. He seems confused. "I don't know. Kinda drawin' a blank." He looks at the table with the remnants of the bear meat. "You go out and shoot somethin?"</p><p> </p><p>Carol's simultaneously relieved and deeply saddened. If he doesn't remember anything about the bear, he doesn't remember the rest of their conversation, either. She almost wants to laugh. The gods toy with their hearts and lay ruin to their bodies and it never ends. It's as if they're forever doomed to exist within their own special circle of hell, created just for them. She wipes her hands off on her pants and grabs his arm with both of hers again.</p><p> </p><p>He's puzzled and concerned. "You been cryin' hard. What's goin' on?" Daryl glimpses the rolled up, chewed up magazine on the nightstand. "The hell happened here?" he asks, picking it up and examining it.</p><p> </p><p>"You had a seizure," she explains. "Stuck that between your teeth during."</p><p> </p><p>"Jesus," he says. "Really?" He makes a face. "Feels like I bit my tongue, now you mention it." He immediately sticks his fingers in his mouth to check, then draws them back, looking for blood.</p><p> </p><p>"You probably did." Carol starts to rise, then sinks back when her legs suddenly turn to gelatin and fail her. It's as if all the strength has run right out of them. She gives a little moan and she's suddenly so damn <em>tired</em>. She's going to sleep for a year once they've gotten through this mess and come out the other side intact. She's mildly horrified at how hysterically she was weeping just minutes ago. Her grief to think she might be losing him had spilled over beyond her control, and she's glad he seems to have no recollection of it, aside from the fact he notices she's been crying.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl abandons his oral self-examination. "You need to get some sleep. Can tell you're tired," he says weakly. He's not even attempting to sit up, yet.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm okay. How's your leg?"</p><p> </p><p>"It hurts," they both say in unison. Daryl offers her a strained smile. "I'm sorry you stayed, but I'm glad you're here," he confesses. "Scared for you, though. What if I die and turn while you're asleep?" She can tell he's been giving this some thought.</p><p> </p><p>Carol doesn't have an answer for him. She's considered it herself, but if Daryl dies she doesn't really care what happens to her. Not ever again. "I haven't worried about it. You're still hanging in there," she says dismissively.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, you <em>should</em> worry about it. I do."</p><p> </p><p>"I don't."</p><p> </p><p>"What if I turned and bit you?"</p><p> </p><p>She's suddenly bold and doesn't give a damn. "What if the situation was reversed? What if <em>I</em> bit <em>you?"</em></p><p> </p><p>"Because you're a walker...? Or for some other reason?"</p><p> </p><p>There's a glint of mischief in his eyes and she catches it a beat too late as he grins, and she lightly smacks his arm.</p><p> </p><p>"Smartass," she says. "I swear Negan's rubbing off on you." Her tears have evaporated, along with the sadness that accompanied them. She could almost pretend the desperate moments of a short while ago never happened at all. Then she notices a dab of blood in the corner of his mouth. "You <em>did</em> bite your tongue."</p><p> </p><p>"Said so. Don't feel it, much. Kinda numb now."</p><p> </p><p>"How do you feel? Besides your leg?" She's trying not to show it, but she's anxious.</p><p> </p><p>"Just tired. Tired, and dizzy. Sometimes I think somethin's real and it ain't, or somethin' actually happens but I think it's a dream." He runs a hand through his hair. "Hard to know what to say or do."</p><p> </p><p>She frowns, puzzled. "Be yourself and say what's on your mind."</p><p> </p><p>"Say what's on my mind," Daryl scoffs. "Right."</p><p> </p><p>"What's that supposed to mean?"</p><p> </p><p>"Means what difference does it make, you're only gonna hear what you wanna. You told me to say what's on my mind... Why should I, when you ain't gonna listen to me, anyway?"</p><p> </p><p>"I do too listen to you -- "</p><p> </p><p>"You don't," he counters. "Or you'd have heard me, by now. I've begged you to leave. Don't you know what it means to me, you bein' safe? Knowin' you're gonna be okay?" She's shaking her head, because he's making it about her, and it's not, it shouldn't be, it <em>can't</em> be.</p><p> </p><p>"Listen," he insists, sitting up slowly, trying not to tip over. "You're everything to me. I don't make it? I want you to go on livin' and be happy and have a good life."</p><p> </p><p>Carol thought she was out of tears, but her face screws up and she raises both hands to cover it as she begins to cry again.</p><p> </p><p>"Shit," Daryl mutters. "However you're takin' it, I didn't mean it that way, I swear."</p><p> </p><p>He tries to sit up straighter, takes on a startled expression, blanches, and passes out. He slumps to his right and topples onto the mattress.</p><p> </p><p>Carol springs to her feet and bolts to the other side of the bed, pushing and rolling him up and off his bad leg and onto his back. He's not seizing again -- yet -- just unconscious. He's got to be dehydrated, and he isn't eating enough to permit his body to start repairing itself. He's still so hot, and she wonders how long he can live this way. Fever is the body's response to infection, she knows that much, but how long will he have to fight it off? How long <em>can</em> he fight it off?She'll just continue giving him the pills and the poultices and hope things work out. They've run out of other options.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>Carol pulls the armchair close to the bed and eventually dozes off with her bottom in the chair and her upper body on the mattress, hugging Daryl's arm in both of hers, one hand curled around his bicep and his elbow in the other. Like she's determined not to let him get away. She's beyond exhausted, so tired she can't even sleep. It's as miserable as it sounds.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl wakes in the night and his eyes regard her with questions she can't possibly answer. She coaxes him into eating a little seasoned rice and bear meat, and gives him both of the medications. He drinks extra water, at her urging, but she can tell he's doing it only to please her, and not because he's actually thirsty. He sinks back against the pillows as soon as he can, and closes his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"Carol," he says finally, nearly in a whisper.</p><p> </p><p>"What is it?" she asks.</p><p> </p><p>"Please don't die on account 'a me."</p><p> </p><p><em>"Stop," </em>she hisses. "It's none of your business what I do or don't do, okay?"</p><p> </p><p>"Atta girl," he said, and the tone and inflection of his voice eerily channels his long dead brother Merle. "That's the Carol we all know and love."</p><p> </p><p>"I think a lot of people would disagree with your assessment of 'all,'" she says pointedly. "And the only person who knows <em>and</em> loves me is -- " An intense and unfamiliar expression flickers across his features and she immediately backtracks. She really needs to watch her words when she's this fatigued. "I mean, <em>assuming</em> that --"</p><p> </p><p>"It's true," Daryl says. "Stahp. Not that I'm the only one that... anyway... Yeah, I do, okay?" He's suddenly on the defensive. "You all right with that? Do I need your <em>permission?"</em></p><p> </p><p>"I'm not exactly sure," she says, playing along and trying to be flippant. "If I give it, what will you do with it?"</p><p> </p><p>"Anything you want me to," he breathed. He's almost crying. "Goddamn it, Carol." Now he <em>is</em> crying. "After all this time. All this wasted, fuckin' time. Goddamn it."</p><p> </p><p>Her heart's breaking for him now, his sorrow's so palpable she can almost reach out and touch it.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl shakes his head and swipes at his watering eyes with the arm she's not clinging to. "It's all so fucked up. We were s'posed to have a future." He wipes his eyes again. "Our future date, remember that? Seems fuckin' forever ago an' it's only been days. Now its just gonna be... the end," he mourns.</p><p> </p><p>"What's ending? Nothing's ending," Carol says, alarmed. Her head's swimming that he remembers their future date after all, let alone that he seems to grieve the potential loss as much as she does. "You're going to get better and we'll go back to Alexandria."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm dyin' Carol," he rasps, harsh and to the point. "I'm dyin' and don't you try and bullshit me. I don't want you doin' it, after. I don't wanna lie here and think maybe you're gonna wait around and feed me your arm after I turn... or some other fall-on-your-own-sword shit. So you can let me do it now, or you can leave. Ain't no other choice. Time's up." She's holding on to his left arm, so he has to roll toward her as he reaches for the pistol on the nightstand with his right.</p><p> </p><p>Carol instantly realizes what he's doing. She releases his arm and sweeps the gun and everything else off the table with both of hers. The gun miraculously doesn't discharge when it hits the wood floor and spins clear across the room to fetch up against a baseboard on the far wall. Finally, something that goes right.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl doesn't seem to think so. The look on his face when she knocks the gun out of his reach is sheer grief and misery, and when she eliminates his chosen option, he crumples. Tears and snot are heartbreaking on him.</p><p> </p><p>"Please don't," she pleads. "I can't lose you, too." She's also crying. <em>"Please</em>, Daryl." Carol echoes his own words back to him. "I need you to stay." She's hugging herself with her arms to avoid hugging <em>him</em>. She feels like her heart's going to burst so completely it will leak out every last living drop in her body.</p><p> </p><p><em>"Why won't you let me go?"</em> He begs, needing an answer. "You never had a problem doin' it before." There's accusation and hurt on his face and in the rawness of his voice.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm sorry!" she wails, drowning in guilt. "I didn't want to! <em>I missed you so much,"</em> she sobs, horrifying herself with this confession. Carol buries her face in her hands, unable to continue meeting his wounded eyes. "I'm so sorry, Daryl," she weeps brokenly. She realizes the truth of his self-imposed exile, living in that lonely tent by the river for years while she played royalty at Kingdom, pretending the part of her heart that didn't belong to Henry wasn't shriveling over the lost proximity of her best friend. They'd gone without seeing each other for months at a time and he'd thought it was what she'd wanted.</p><p> </p><p>"Please stay with me." She's begging him openly now.<em> "Please. I'll do anything, just please, please don't leave me."</em></p><p> </p><p>She senses him reaching over before he touches one of the hands she holds clamped over her face, and the heat emanating from his fingers is beyond alarming.</p><p> </p><p>She's done everything within her power and it's not going to be enough. The antibiotics, the hot packs, the stitches, the boiled linens and bottles of alcohol, it's all going to be for nothing and she can't do anything to prevent it. The progression of his affliction has shifted completely out of her control. Carol's not piloting the ship any more -- if she ever has at all -- and it's the horror and heartbreak of the realization Daryl's going to die right in front of her that's finally going to shatter her for good.</p><p> </p><p>His hand drops away and he's gone quiet. When she pulls her own hands from her face, he's seizing again.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>Daryl's in and out of consciousness and rarely present when he is. She manages to get pills, water and a little nourishment into him often enough to maintain the status quo. His fever hasn't broken, but he's still alive. Carol continues the compresses because she doesn't know what else to do. It makes her feel like she's not giving up, and she's not sure whether she's doing it for him, or for herself.</p><p> </p><p>Most of the time he's passed out, and when Carol sleeps, its in the armchair she's drawn next to the bed. Her head's resting on the mattress next to his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his own again. She knows this is the least smart thing to do if she suspects he will turn, but she doesn't care. She doesn't want to live in a world without him in it. End of story. They can be walkers together in the next "life."</p><p> </p><p>It's exactly one week since the incident, and Daryl doesn't wake up that day at all. Carol spends hours crying at his bedside in alternating sadness and impotent rage, either blubbering and wailing or just sitting with the tears pouring silently down her face and dripping onto her hands. She cries so hard for so long she gives herself a world class headache and such a severe case of the hiccups she nearly throws up what little she's managed to eat. She wants to hurt herself, to scream with all the loss and horror and grief until her throat bleeds. She wants to lie down and die right along with him.</p><p> </p><p>Carol falls into a fitful, exhausted sleep, and dreams she wakes with Daryl stiff and cold beside her. She clings to his still arm in an unimaginable agony of the heart. In the dream her body's alive while the deepest part of her is dying, her soul is bleeding out into the air around them and she prays for her own heart to <em>just stop, please god, I can't stay here without him, please don't make me.</em> When Daryl rasps out a low growl and turns his filmed-over walker eyes toward her she closes her own eyes and waits, bracing for the inevitable bite...</p><p> </p><p>Then she awakens for real and he's having another seizure. Carol feels her final imagined grasp on the situation break and fall away and she dissolves into the hell she's always known was waiting for her, the hell of watching the one person she can't live without leave the mortal plane and there's nothing she can do to stop it. Accepting that his death is imminent, Carol openly pleads and begs with whatever god there is for Daryl's life. She pleads with Daryl. She takes hold of his sweatshirt, no longer drenched as he sweated off and evaporated away most of his water hours ago, and she again implores him to stay, tells him that she needs him, that she'll do absolutely anything, that he can't leave her here alone.</p><p> </p><p><em>"Wake your ass up! I can't lose you, either! Wake up! Wake up!" </em>Carol shrieks, oblivious to any presence of walkers in the extremity of her anguish. She keeps her white-knuckle grip on his shirt and shakes him, overwhelmed with emotion and screaming into his unconscious face. <em>"Daryl Dixon, don't you fucking die on me! Wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP!"</em></p><p> </p><p>She stops, gagging on her own saliva, and sucks in a whooping breath, coughing and gasping. She loosens her clutch on Daryl's shirt and staggers weakly upright, then trips over her own feet and falls, windmilling her arms. Carol momentarily wonders why she's grasping at the air, it's not as if she can fly back into a upright position... Her head connects hard with the bedside table and it knocks her out cold.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*******</p><p>As always, I hope you found something here to enjoy! If it made you feel horribly angsty and/or if you hate me now, I'll take that, too, tbh.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. A Piece of Peace at the End of the World</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Carol's throat hurts. It's the first thing she's aware of. The second is that the fire's gone out and it's freezing, and the third is the thin light of early morning seeping into the room from beneath the door and shining in her eyes from... under the bed? She can see it from where she's laying on the floor. She moves too fast, and her head starts to pound. She lets out a groan, raising her hands to her temples and trying to lie still. There's a goose egg on the right side of her skull. She vaguely remembers an overwhelming sadness and railing against the finality of it at the top of her lungs. She remembers living a nightmare. She remembers... <em>Daryl</em>.</p><p> </p><p>She sits up abruptly. The room spins around her and she grasps at the nearby chair and the side table to give herself something solid to anchor to. Her gaze travels up to the bed -- and Daryl's lying on his side, watching her. It's mostly dark in the room and visibility's poor enough she can't read his expression, but she can see the clear gleam of his living eyes, and she wants to weep all over again -- this time in gratitude.</p><p> </p><p>"Daryl," she whispers. Her voice is a croak, throat ravaged by her cries. "Are you still with me? Say something."</p><p> </p><p>"Something," he rasps in the gravelly voice she believed she'd never hear again.</p><p> </p><p>Carol lets out a cross between a sob and a squeak, crawls to the bed and drags herself up to unabashedly wrap her arms around him and cry all over again, drowning in such enormous relief it's roaring in her ears like the ocean. Her joy is at least as great as her grief. She notices while holding him this time that he's not nearly as hot as he was. His fever has finally broken.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl's arms come up and wrap themselves around her and a hug from him never felt so good. She holds onto him tight, eyes shut, clinging to him like a limpet on a rock, certain if she releases him he's going to disappear, like the Daryl in her bed in her dreams. She forces herself to draw back at last. He's holding on to her upper arms like he's afraid she's going to collapse. "Don't take this the wrong way," he says, "but you look terrible. And why were you layin' on the floor?"</p><p> </p><p>"I'm not sure... I think I fell and hit my head," she says, gently pulling an arm back to rub at the knot on her skull. "I remember I was... " She scrubs at her face with her hand. "You were -- having seizures -- and your fever -- you were <em>dying</em>, Daryl -- " She sucks in a sobbing breath and rests her forehead against his broad shoulder. "I never thought I'd hear your voice again," she says. "Oh god. I can't keep doing this. I can't. I'm so tired. I just want to lie down forever."</p><p> </p><p>"Get in here, then," he urges, pushing the comforter back. "Get some sleep." She feels his breath ruffle her hair. "Kinda thirsty," he adds, "we got water?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, sure, you probably could stand some medicine now, too," she remembers, getting up to open the drapes and retrieve his canteen. She finds the pill bottles and shakes out the doses of each and gives them to him with some leftover rice and crackers. Daryl chokes down enough of it to finally satisfy her. Carol's just mooning over him with this incredibly sappy, happy look. It's a little silly, nearly a caricature, and oddly touching.</p><p> </p><p>"The hell's wrong with you?" he demands.</p><p> </p><p>"Excuse me?"</p><p> </p><p>"You gotta goofy expression. Kinda weird."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, its nothing. Just happy you're feeling better." It's a huge understatement, when Carol's so relieved her elation nearly merits a straitjacket. It's like a religious fervor, she's ready to bounce off the walls, dancing and singing and speaking in tongues. She couldn't be any more grateful if he came back from the dead, and she keeps touching him to assure herself he's really here and alive.</p><p> </p><p>She realizes how ridiculous her reactions must seem. As far as Daryl knows, he took a nap and has no idea he woke up in the same room with the wreckage of her all-night, emotional journey through her own personal hell. She's watching him with her eyes shining and it's not typical. Carol's eyes don't usually shine, they <em>glitter</em>.</p><p> </p><p>There's nothing glittery about her now, however. Nearly half of her hair's slipped out of the knot she ties it in to hang around her face in loose, untidy silver skeins. Her eyes are puffy and red-rimmed from hours of weeping and days without a decent sleep. There's dirt and grime on her face and hands and arms. The only clean spots are on her cheeks, where she wiped and wiped away the flood of tears that washed the dirt from her skin.</p><p> </p><p>"You're right," she says. "I need to get some sleep. You're not going to try to..." she hesitates, "...off yourself... <em>while</em> I sleep, are you?" The gun they both lunged for earlier is still on the other side of the room on the floor. Carol leaves it there for now.</p><p> </p><p>"Nah. Promise. Im'a sleep, too. Still tired." Daryl scoots carefully to the right to make room for her on the bed. She unlaces and toes off her boots and removes her bra beneath her shirt. He's seen her do this maneuver before. Her arms both retreat into the sleeves and crawl underneath her clothes and she fidgets around in there a few seconds until she puts her arms through the sleeves again and plucks her bra from the top of her shirt to drop it nearby, in this case, on the armchair. She climbs on to the bed and stretches out beside him and it gives her an actual thrill to feel his body emanating normal level heat and not the fires of hell.</p><p> </p><p>Only hours ago she planned to lie by his side after his death and wait for him to reanimate and literally eat her alive. Like some melodramatic, grieving widow in a gothic romance novel. It was sick, Daryl would have <em>hated</em> it, and Carol was currently in denial that she'd ever entertained the thought of such an over-the-top suicide. She's never underestimated her own capacity for self-loathing but the cruelty of her final solution, in retrospect, shocks the system.</p><p> </p><p>Now she curls up against the warmth of his body and wants to weep with relief. Daryl slips his arm easily around her shoulders and pulls her closer, as if they've done this every day forever. She lays her head on his chest and listens to the steady thudding of his heart, proof he's still living and this isn't a dream. She feels his breath as he exhales against her hair and Carol plummets headlong into a deep and dreamless sleep.</p><p> </p><p>********</p><p> </p><p>They sleep for the better part of the following three days, both of them beyond exhausted after surviving the previous week. They barely crawl out of the bed long enough to put wood in the fire, fetch water, eat, relieve themselves and engage in minimal personal grooming, consisting mostly of routine dental care and combing their hair out often enough to prevent it from becoming hopelessly tangled.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl never has another seizure, and his fever returns for a day and a half, although nowhere near as high as it was before, then departs permanently. Carol keeps a nervous watch for several days before finally beginning to relax about his recovery. She's relieved he has no cognizance or memory of her emotional meltdown at his bedside. It was the lowest point of her existence, and she'd rather be the only witness to it than another human being knowing the true depths of her vulnerability. Even if that other human is the specific human she's most vulnerable to.</p><p> </p><p>He tolerates her clinginess with gentle patience and humor. He teases her often now, but it's never the kind of teasing to fill her with doubt or make her feel self-conscious about her affections. She thinks he might actually enjoy it, all the little touches and the hugs and the brushing back of his fringe whenever the mood strikes her. He never speaks when she's touching him, just watches her and smiles. It might make her nervous if they hadn't already been doing this waltz in some ways for over a decade already.</p><p> </p><p>Carol wrenched her elbow when she tussled with the bear and now her right arm's weak when she draws back a bowstring. She's had this type of injury before -- credit to Ed -- so she knows it's not going to heal overnight. Far from it, especially when she continues using it to the degree she does. She catches herself massaging it repeatedly during the day, trying to rub the pain out, and makes a major effort not to do it in front of Daryl, lest he volunteer to sacrifice the few remaining pain pills.</p><p> </p><p>When the carcasses of the hogs and the bear are gnawed down to nothing more than a few red strings clinging to white bone, the walkers stop visiting. It's another clue as to why the place was so untouched when they arrived. Apparently it doesn't exist on walker road maps unless there is a smorgasbord of fresh, large, dead animals on the property. Carol doesn't bother trying to clean the mess. Maybe the aftermath of their hunting misfortune will serve as a warning or deterrent to others, and she hasn't the strength or the will to drag away what's left. Just makes sure the shed door's still tied shut and avoids venturing out into the open except when retrieving wood from the barn.</p><p> </p><p>It's not good for the battery on the bike to sit in the cold like this, but Daryl's certain it's fine and that the engine will turn over when they're ready to leave. He mentions this once, in passing, and they don't bring it up again. He's not going to hike thirty miles on that leg, nor should he try, but there's no point in fussing over any of it until he can literally walk on his own two feet. She hadn't expected either of them to still be alive, let alone that they might return to Alexandria together, so she hasn't filled her head with such futile details.</p><p> </p><p>Carol absorbs every second of their three day lie-in like a flower inhaling sunlight. When she's conscious, that is. They do spend the majority of the time curled up together and soundly sleeping. It's possibly the most vulnerable they've been since the Turn, and it would be easy for marauders to overpower them now, but no one and nothing shows up to bother them. They've been tired before -- Carol even to the point of hallucinations -- but this is the most exhaustion either have known, and they take advantage of the opportunity to recharge and refresh and recover.</p><p> </p><p>Carol doesn't attempt to sleep on the floor again. They use a sofa cushion to elevate Daryl's leg, and share the bed as if it's something they've always done. Truth be told, she thinks he might enjoy it as much as she does. Both of them take solace from the close proximity of the other. The sound of his respirations are a lullaby that soothes her to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>She realizes, now and forever, just how incapable she is of living without him. She's been so ridiculously <em>happy</em> and full of internal hallelujahs since his fever broke, she wonders if she's losing her mind. She can't stop being thankful. She can't stop being grateful. She can't stop clinging to every single second they have together and there are a lot of those now, the majority of Carol's literal existence.</p><p> </p><p>She knows they need to talk, and she knows she needs to come clean with him, soon, about everything. She's just waiting for the right time. She swears to herself she's not avoiding.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>If they were keeping a calendar, it might be late December. There is frost on the ground most mornings and a few times they awaken to a light blanket of new snow. Carol hates climbing out of bed in the early chill. The two of them generate a comfortable cocoon of heat beneath the covers and being the first to leave it every day is her least favorite thing.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes they'll lie in bed of a morning, buried under the blankets and the sleeping bag and the thick, heavy comforter. Facing one another in a swirl of bedding, their eyes and noses sticking out and their breaths painting clouds in the atmosphere between them. They'll talk about people they miss, their favorite places, food, the weather or anything else besides <em>them</em> and the thing that exists in between, and their current situation.</p><p> </p><p>It does no good to discuss or plan for the current situation because Carol's doing it all anyway, and she's managing without any strategic assistance. Daryl's unfamiliar with the surrounding landscape and the layout of the place other than what he assessed of the house on their initial sweep. Maybe he doesn't even remember that much. He doesn't seem to remember the conversation they had about their relationship and Carol still hasn't decided whether she's mourning the loss, or relieved. So much for their future date. Again.</p><p> </p><p>She's found some pants in the house that are a little small for him -- ironically, the same man's clothing that was too large for Carol -- but it's either those or the sweatpants, which are suitable for sleepwear and not much else. She mulls over it for a day then rifles through her pack for some of the items she raided from an upstairs sewing basket, and stitches up the leg of the raggedy pants Daryl was wearing when they arrived. She's worried the new seam might chafe the wound, but he only seems relieved to get his own clothes back. They've decided he'll try standing on the leg in another week, and then they'll assess how to proceed. It's healing nicely now. Carol removes the stitches on the twelfth day, after both of them notice the sutures appear to be growing into his flesh.</p><p> </p><p>She carefully lifts a strand, and the skin lifts with it. They exchange a look, and Carol shrugs. She cuts the suture next to the knot with another blade she removed from the disposal razor. Then she grabs hold of the knot end with the pliers, and yanks it out. Daryl flinches. They count down each one, and he's ready to jump out of his skin by the time she finishes. She carefully cleans off the blood that oozes during the procedure, examining the edges of the wound. Everything considered, it's knitting well.</p><p> </p><p>"How's it feel?" she asks, gathering the old bandages and setting them aside for the next round of boiling and sterilization.</p><p> </p><p>"Itches like crazy," he says, peering over her shoulder at the wound. Carol's pleased he's finally on the mend. The redness around his injury dissipates a little more each day, and the spasms stopped shortly after his fever broke. She's beginning to allow herself to believe he's actually going to recover. He hasn't borne weight on the leg yet and won't for a while, but Carol will happily take disabled Daryl over dead Daryl any day of the week.</p><p> </p><p>"What's so funny?" he asks, seeing her smile.</p><p> </p><p>She shakes her head, still smiling. "A few days ago, I thought you'd be dead by dawn. I'm just... glad. Glad you're so much better now."</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, prolly be a pain in the ass if you had to find a new bestie," he says wryly.</p><p> </p><p>"No kidding," Carol agrees, playing along. "Especially out here in the middle of nowhere." She hands him a box of what they've labeled the "ancient stale scout crackers." Daryl opens the lid and the plastic pouch inside, then offers her some. She humors him by extending her hand and he shakes a portion of the contents into her open palm. They force themselves to each choke down a handful. Carbs are carbs and this isn't the French Laundry.</p><p> </p><p>They've dropped into a daily routine that's beginning to feel as if they've never lived any other way. They rise in the morning and Carol gets the fire going first thing while Daryl digs through the box of foodstuffs they're eating from and the basket of hard pieces of dried bear jerky, which they <em>still</em> have to cook first, every time. He finds an assortment to get them through the day, usually something to fix a pot of in the morning and return to for dinner, supplemented by a snack like the ancient stale scout crackers. Carol plans to start hunting soon, but she's not quite ready, yet.</p><p> </p><p>She brings in enough wood at a time to last them three to five days. They decide it doesn't matter where she stacks and stores it because the path she's already worn between the porch and the barn is a blatant advertisement of home occupancy. That and the tarp Carol's nailed up over the broken window in the living room.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn't take long to realize the shattered window is going to be a problem. When they find it, the house is intact and almost like a museum. Then the bear breaks the glass. In the brief period of time the window's open, the cold and damp have their way on the interior to an irreparable degree. It's the influx of smaller wildlife drawn by the smell of food and cooking that drives them to their chosen solution. If raccoons and possums are coming in, Daryl reasons, it's only a matter of time until they have another bear in the house. Carol nails up a tarp, but not before she picks off a big possum with her bow, giving them their first fresh meat in weeks, true cause for celebration. Using the bow even a single time torques her elbow a little, but she just takes it in stride. It's not like it's going to heal completely when she's hauling daily armloads of firewood, anyway.</p><p> </p><p>Walkers are rare now, and they decide whatever attracted them to the fresh carcasses in the driveway, it isn't the smell, otherwise the fire and cooking odors that bring wildlife would draw walkers in greater numbers. Carol conducts a visual scan of the property every time she steps outside, at least twice a day, and while everything's always still and calm and nothing's moving or out of sorts, she feels like there is a clock counting down somewhere and she'd better be prepared for whatever it is that's coming next.</p><p> </p><p>If it's all they're eating, the rice will be gone within two weeks, but they've enough left from the pantry stash and the ancient stale scout snacks to stretch it out to three, possibly four if they start rationing now. They either need something else to eat by then, or be ready to leave. The foot-operated gear shift on the bike is on the left, which is good news, but the kick start's on the right and there's no way to determine how long it will be before Daryl can bear any weight on his right leg. Carol may be able to kick start it, but then there's the long ride home. If they try to ride before he's capable of using both legs to balance and brace the bike with them on it, they're asking for trouble. There is also the matter of the cold and wet of winter in general which frequently morphs into ice and makes even a walk across the porch potentially treacherous. Neither of them want to imagine the aftermath of an icy spin out on the pavement en route to Alexandria, and that's if the bike will even start, which Carol doubts, in spite of Daryl's assurances.</p><p> </p><p>They've been talking about making some sort of walking apparatus so he can get around unassisted. He's sick of hopping everywhere on one leg and soon discovers hopping on his good leg with his bad leg hanging down makes it swell worse, so they have extra incentive to find a solution. If they can create something to enable him to "walk" on it without bearing any weight below the knee, it will work, and is preferable to crutches alone, which come with their own setbacks.</p><p> </p><p>Carol finds pencils and paper in the house and Daryl's been sketching ideas and sending her on mini expeditions to find items around the property he can work with. They're both eager for him to be able to leave the room and get out into the open air on his own. It's winter and they obviously didn't come prepared to stay, but he's never gone this long in his life without being outdoors. They've gotten him out to the porch twice. Both times they felt horribly exposed, retreating indoors soon after.</p><p> </p><p>There's a quiet domesticity to it all she cherishes and revels in, and at the same time, it scares the living shit out of her. The temptation to relax and just breathe is great, and yet she senses there's something out there beyond the horizon, toxic, dark and coiled like a poisonous serpent, waiting to lash out and fill their world with blood and horror, and she can't stop watching and waiting for it.</p><p> </p><p>She wakes in the night sometimes and props herself on an elbow listening, listening, waiting and listening. Daryl usually awakens as well and Carol hasn't quite figured that out because it's not as if she moves around a lot or doesn't make an effort to avoid disturbing him. Maybe he's attuned to her on a deeper, unconscious level because he invariably wakes shortly after she does, and rolls to his side to watch her waiting. He doesn't speak, doesn't ask her what she's doing, or what's wrong. He gets it, he gets <em>her</em>. Always when she finally lays her head back down, he wraps his arm around her shoulders and she rolls into his side and nestles there until they either fall back asleep, or one of them gets a muscle cramp or a crick in their neck and finally has to move.</p><p> </p><p>Carol never thought anything so simple as sleeping next to Daryl every night would make her heart sing but she's as giddy as a girl in love when the sun goes down and she only hopes it doesn't show too much in her expression and body language. Sometimes she thinks he looks forward to it as much as she does. One of them might suggest going to bed early for some bullshit reason or other, and while she can't speak for Daryl, Carol knows beyond a doubt when she wants to turn in early that it's all about immersing herself in the warmth of his physical presence and everything else she can get all up in her heart about when it comes to him.</p><p> </p><p>Her relief at his resurrection is as persistent and overwhelming as a personal religious experience. Every day she wants to fall on her knees and give thanks that he's still actually here --alive, breathing, and speaking -- when she'd been helplessly watching the life burn out of his body and her whole world falling to pieces only days ago. A part of her still waits to wake from this dream and find it was all a cruel trick of her mind... and she reaches for him and feels his living warmth and is instantly comforted.</p><p> </p><p>"What's up with you?" he asks, not annoyed, only puzzled, as she draws her hand from his arm for the twentieth time today. "You keep touchin' me like you think I'm a ghost."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm still trying to convince myself you're here," she confesses with a shrug, trying to make it seem less than the epiphany it is. "You were dying."</p><p> </p><p>"So you said. Ain't dyin' now. Haven't been for a while."</p><p> </p><p>"Nope." Carol beams a wide smile at him, she can't help herself. Daryl's continuing existence is every cause for celebration. He's watching her with a mixture of affection, puzzlement and amusement. It's quite becoming on him. So rarely is his face completely free of angst. She realized she's practically <em>swooning</em> over him, and she'd be embarrassed if she wasn't so damn happy he's still alive.</p><p> </p><p><em>"Stahp," </em>he pleads, squirming, but he's smiling, too. "Will you quit lookin' at me like that? You're givin' me a complex."</p><p> </p><p>She chuckles. "Tell the others to step aside and make room for it."</p><p> </p><p>He shoots her a look and catches her indulging in a smug, self-satisfied grin. "Yeah, that's a good one. Feelin' clever now, huh?"</p><p> </p><p>"I am. Thinking on my feet, like always."</p><p> </p><p>"Like always," he agrees. Then he turns serious. "You checkin' a perimeter around the property here? Every day we got this fire goin' is another chance someone finds us, and they're probably not gonna be our people."</p><p> </p><p>Carol sighs and hangs her head a little. This is an area where she's been lax, and for reasons, but it's gnawed at her. "I cross the yard and take a look around, that's it. I haven't done a wide loop or anything since we got here."</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head briskly, "Nah, that's dangerous. Someone could be watchin' by now. Stakin' us out."</p><p> </p><p>"I don't really think that --"</p><p> </p><p>"Ran into a group out on the road, once," Daryl warns, interrupting her. "After the prison fell and Beth got snatched. They were a bad bunch. Real bad. We don't want anyone like that coming around. Or Whisperers, or those cannibals at Terminus." They both shudder a little at the memory. There are an unfortunate number of people still out there who make Negan and his Sanctuary full of Saviors look like a Sunday school class.</p><p> </p><p>"Point taken," she acknowledges. "I can check further out the next time. You're a lot better and I'm not as worried about leaving the house, now."</p><p> </p><p>"You <em>should</em> be worried. <em>I'm</em> worried. Ain't nothin' good been happenin' out here except neither one of us is dead yet." He pulls on his beard momentarily and turns to her. "You think it's Christmas?"</p><p> </p><p>"Why?" Carol snorts, "you want to put up a tree and wrap presents?"</p><p> </p><p>Daryl narrows his eyes at her playfully. "Got an awful smart mouth on you. Gonna have to do somethin' about that."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, yeah?" she teases, feeling reckless. "What's your action plan? Bring it, Mister Crossbow."</p><p> </p><p>She can tell the wheels are turning in his brain. That he's thinking of something and deciding whether or not to do it, or say it. She's still smiling, waiting for him to get his shit together and speak.</p><p> </p><p>"Was askin' about Christmas because the days start gettin' longer around then. Start having more daylight. Smartass." She can tell it's not what he was originally going to say.</p><p> </p><p>"We're spending the winter in a boarded-up bedroom, what difference does it make?" she asks.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl sighs. "You're a real pain, you know that? Worse'n my leg, sometimes."</p><p> </p><p>"Hmm."</p><p> </p><p>"Oughta put you over my knee and spank you."</p><p> </p><p>"Ohh, <em>that</em> might be a <em>lot</em> of fun," she purrs, and sits there watching his face turn red.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>They soon throw together a padded contraption for Daryl to walk on that looks like a cross between a window frame, a shepherd's staff, and a two by four. He can kneel on the padded surface and buckle three straps, in front of and behind the knee and at the ankle, then holds onto it in front of his leg with his right hand like a walking stick. His lower leg is bent and sticks out behind him. It looks <em>ridiculous</em> and Carol's tempted to parrot Daryl's own line from Alexandria back at him, but she's afraid he might develop a "complex" over it and she wants to keep him on his feet.</p><p> </p><p>He reminds her of a toddler who's just learning to walk. Constantly upright, moving, and into absolutely everything. She knows he's full of nervous energy and he's lain in that bed longer than he ever has before in his life. Daryl's like a shark, he can't stop moving and inactivity is suffocating for him. He makes it his mission now to search the house for whatever hidden treasures they might have missed the first time. Carol's almost positive he won't find anything new or valuable, but it lifts her heart in ways she can't describe just to hear him clunking around in an adjacent room or upstairs, and to see him standing upright again.</p><p> </p><p>She's dragged the armchair up close to the fire and is taking a rare moment of leisure, enjoying a cup of coffee made from freeze dried granules from the pantry that tastes not remotely like coffee, but contains caffeine and gives her a boost in the morning. She's trying to convince herself that it does still taste faintly like coffee when Daryl brings her the clothes she discarded after her fight with the bear.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't say anything, just returns to the room with the bloodied coat and displays it to her in a silent offering. He raises his eyebrows in a question she promptly rewards with a loud raspberry. Daryl shrugs and tosses the coat out the bedroom door. When he turns back to her, Carol sees the reproach in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"Thought you were gonna tell me the truth now," he sulks. "All that blood from the bear, or was there somethin' else you tangled with?"</p><p> </p><p>"It's all from the bear, Daryl. I swear. Look, I'll admit it was a little touch-and-go, all right? I still can't believe I killed a bear with... carpentry tools." She huffs out a small laugh. "I know I got lucky, really lucky, beyond lucky." She looks up at him. "And yeah, the bear bled a lot, and then I took the hindquarter, and it was just blood everywhere. I knew you'd be concerned, so I changed clothes before coming back downstairs."</p><p> </p><p>It sounds plausible and her face doesn't display any clues of dishonesty.</p><p> </p><p>"You should see the coat I was wearing the day we got here," she adds.</p><p> </p><p>"I have. All the shit we both were wearin' that first day, except for these." He tugs on his patched pants. "You threw it all in the corner of the same bedroom where I found the bear coat."</p><p> </p><p>"Um." Carol says. He really <em>has</em> been searching for buried treasure.</p><p> </p><p>"Why won't you tell me things?" Daryl asks, plaintive and sad. "You... shut me out."</p><p> </p><p>"I don't mean to," she says quickly. "Really, I don't. I don't want to make you worry. You wanted me to leave, you were even going to shoot yourself to make me leave, and I don't always know what might set you off. I don't want you to worry, so things that <em>will</em> worry you, I just... avoid mentioning them."</p><p> </p><p>He seems to chew on this a while. "So you don't tell me 'cause I'll worry if you do?"</p><p> </p><p>She nods her head rapidly.</p><p> </p><p>"Is it a <em>bad</em> thing that I worry?"</p><p> </p><p>She's confused. "A bad thing? No, not really, but you know, sometimes you get overly upset. A little bit."</p><p> </p><p>"I ain't that asshole you was married to. <em>Or</em> the King," he adds when she shoots him a look of reproach.</p><p> </p><p>"I know."</p><p> </p><p>"So why does my worrying worry <em>you?"</em></p><p> </p><p>Her frustration gets the best of her. "I don't know, Daryl. It just does."</p><p> </p><p>He withdraws. "I only worry because I give a shit," he says, "not gonna apologize for that."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm not asking you to," she says carefully. "Not asking you to give a shit, either."</p><p> </p><p>The conversation's descending rapidly into something they didn't intend it to be as they glare at one another across the room. Daryl sighs in disgust and clomps over to the loveseat, where he unbuckles the straps of his contraption and removes it, dropping heavily onto the cushions with a groan.</p><p> </p><p>"Takes it outta ya, walkin' on that thing," he complains. "Beats layin' in bed all day, though, and I'm gonna find treasure in this house somewhere, I just know it."</p><p> </p><p>Carol smiles and looks down at her hands in her lap and the bracelet he made her, which is now the dirty brown of old, dried blood. She make a little sound of distress in the back of her throat and rubs it futilely between her fingers, as if she can smooth the all-encompassing and soaked-in stain off of it. Maybe it's an omen or harbinger of some sort that Daryl's blood saturated the bracelet he made for her, but she worries, not knowing if the omen's good or bad. There's probably some bear blood mixed with his. She's almost positive he'd appreciate that.</p><p> </p><p>"You still wearin' that?" Daryl asks. "Looks like it's seen better days. The color of shit, now."</p><p> </p><p>Her head turns sharply toward him and her eyes are glimmering. Carol tries to blink them away but it's not going to work so she lowers her gaze.</p><p> </p><p>"Why you still have it on after all this time?" He presses. "Just a string. Was sort of a joke... but not really," he finishes lamely. "Would've got you a real bracelet if I thought you wanted one."</p><p> </p><p>She's still staring down at her hands, and doesn't speak for a long time.</p><p> </p><p>"You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you?' she asks, not looking up.</p><p> </p><p>"Depends on what it is, but probably."</p><p> </p><p>She peers up at him with her glittering side eye. "So your love has limits."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl doesn't miss a beat. "You mostly get the unlimited version."</p><p> </p><p>"Fair enough," she says lightly. "I'll take that."</p><p> </p><p>They just talked about love. About <em>his</em> love for <em>her</em>. She's pretending not to freak out, but inside she's freaking out. She tells herself it's just a game. A game that they're playing because that's what people do, they play games --</p><p> </p><p>"Carol. Hey," he calls her back from the abyss she's invariably galloping toward full speed ahead. <em>"Carol," </em>he repeats. "Look at me."</p><p> </p><p>She raises her reluctant eyes to his, not sure what she'll find there. He's exuding nothing but the warmth that's always lived between them, the closeness and mutual acceptance of their bond. They've survived tragedies of Greek proportions together and parts of them are forever fused in an unbreakable weld. No matter what turn this conversation takes, part of them will always <em>be</em> them. She needs to hold on to that. A gust of wind outside rattles the house.</p><p> </p><p>"You know I love you more than anyone, right?" Daryl asks.</p><p> </p><p>He speaks so softly and shyly, that it takes a minute for Carol to interpret, understand and process what it is he's actually said. When the revelation of his words hits her, she's struck mute. She can't speak, but she can at least meet his eyes, and she hopes he realizes she's not crying again because she's sad. She forces herself to nod, but he's misjudging her silence. "You don't have to love me back," he offers, trying not to sound forlorn.</p><p> </p><p>"But I <em>do</em> love you, Daryl," she chokes out, "I always did."</p><p> </p><p>"Always?" he inquires, and something about it sounds so broken-hearted. "Then <em>why--?" </em>He can't finish, and shakes his head.</p><p> </p><p>"I don't want you to die," she explains. "When I love people, they die. Every time."</p><p> </p><p>"You love Judith," he says carefully, "and she's still around."</p><p> </p><p>"Okay," she concedes. "That's one. Name another." Of course he can't because there are no others.</p><p> </p><p>"You sayin' you never loved the King?" He queries her.</p><p> </p><p>She's still holding his gaze with clear, expressionless eyes. "Ezekiel has cancer. He's going to die."</p><p> </p><p>"Well he ain't dead, yet. And don't think I didn't notice you side-steppin' the question."</p><p> </p><p>"Okay, you want the truth? No. I didn't. I never did. I couldn't."</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Then why did you marry him?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p>She's not prepared for either his raw pain or bewilderment. "It was for Henry," she said. "I already knew everyone I loved died, but I couldn't help myself, I thought maybe if I raised a <em>son</em> -- " Carol's voice catches, and she clears her throat and starts over. "I thought maybe I could keep a boy alive. Maybe I could... redeem myself, for the girls. All of them. And Ezekiel's full of himself, but he was never cruel, he never hit he, he never insulted me, he really did treat me like a queen. Better than I treated him." She makes sure he's looking at her when she says what she has to say next. "I never once told him I loved him."</p><p> </p><p>He's watching her with new suspicion. "What about the lumberjack?"</p><p> </p><p>"Lumber... oh, <em>Tobin?"</em> She's blushing furiously now. She remembers her motivation for that diversion all too well. "I wanted to get laid and so I pretended. Until I could see it was hurting him because he wasn't pretending. I couldn't pretend anymore, either."</p><p> </p><p>"What kind of pretending? You pretended what?"</p><p> </p><p>He has the unnerving ability to always pinpoint and pull back the curtain on whatever it is she's trying to hide by omission. Because she's sworn to tell him the truth, she blurts it out before her defense mechanisms change it into a half-truth, or an out-and-out lie: "I pretended he was you." She can't believe she's telling him this and she's determined to continue but she can't meet his eyes, right now. "I just had so much going on in my head. I didn't want to kill any more, I felt like it would kill <em>me</em> if I did... and you were regretting <em>not</em> having killed Dwight and hell bent on getting vengeance. I felt like we were... diverging. And we hadn't... nothing was... we weren't... " she huffs in frustration. "So I tried to move on."</p><p> </p><p>He's stunned. "Pretended he was <em>me?</em> Why didn't you just -- why couldn't we --"</p><p> </p><p>"Because you're too good for me, Daryl, I don't deserve you. And because you would die. If I did. If <em>we</em> did. Just like everyone one else I ever -- <em>love</em> -- or get too close to." She draws in a deep breath. "I promised not to lie to you any more and I won't. But there's things I've done, and I don't know why, and if you ask and I don't have an answer, well, it's because there isn't one. Or maybe I don't know the answer any more, or maybe I was lying to myself all along. Most of my bad decisions I've made, I made them because I was so up in my own head I didn't know what else to do at the time." Her eyes beg him to understand.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl's on a single track and not to be diverted. "So you'd rather be with someone you're pretendin' is me instead of bein' with me personally?"</p><p> </p><p>It's as bad as it sounds and she doesn't bother trying to deny it.</p><p> </p><p>"Because you would die," she says finally.</p><p> </p><p>"If we did."</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah."</p><p> </p><p>He nodes and contemplates this, gnawing on his lower lip and adjusting the pad on his contraption to avoid meeting her eyes, giving her that space again. Daryl is always the one being the giver. Always. She realized all she's ever really done for him is to take what he offers and feed him an occasional meal. Like she'd done at the house outside Kingdom. Bring in in, feed him, then send him back out into the cold. As if he were a stray cat.</p><p> </p><p>"I've never asked what you want," she says, hesitant. "What do <em>you</em> want, Daryl? What do you really want?" She hears the phantom echo of Alpha's voice in her head: <em>What do you want? Say it! Say it!</em></p><p> </p><p>He's preparing to get to his foot again, and hops up to sit on the arm of the loveseat while he straps his bad leg in and gets situated. "What I want ain't what we're talkin' about," he says.</p><p> </p><p>"It should be."</p><p> </p><p>He chuffs and smirks. "Yeah, right. Maybe later." He straightens and stands, and Carol will never be able to articulate what it means to her to see him get up and get around as he does now. That he rises and walks, that he speaks and breathes. Every time she looks at him, she feels like she's witnessing a miracle. She is.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl smiles awkwardly. <em>"Staahhp.</em> You're givin' me a complex again. I'm gonna go back upstairs, search for treasure," he explains, gesturing with his free arm. He's just dropping it here. Daryl clomps to the door and pauses, turning back. "You don't have to pretend with me, Carol. Ever. I'm alway gonna be good with who you are, and whatever it is you wanna be... or whoever you wanna be with, or not be with, or what the hell ever. A'right? Even if it's somethin' I don't like, I'll accept it. I'll learn to understand it...because I'd do anything for you, and I'm willin' to prove it."</p><p> </p><p>Words catch in her throat, but he doesn't wait for an answer before leaving the room.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*******<br/>I had waaayy too many chapter end notes and deleted them. Sorry for any confusion.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Eye of the Hurricane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They try to get Daryl standing on both feet at week three, but he's barely put any weight on the leg before realizing it's in no way ready to carry him around, yet. He sinks back onto the bed in bitter defeat, then suffers through a series of muscle spasms, the pain of which he'd all but forgotten since his fever broke.</p><p> </p><p>"Back to the drawing board," Carol sighs. "It just needs time to heal. It's the worst injury I've ever seen to a limb that didn't end in amputation, so count your blessings."</p><p> </p><p>On one of his searches through the house Daryl discovers an old book on medical and surgical nursing. He delivers the volume, opened to the relevant section, as she's scrubbing a couple of shirts in the tub by candle light and using her good arm for the scrubbing action. She stops and dries her hands on a towel and takes the proffered volume.</p><p> </p><p>"This is interesting," she muses, disregarding his placemark and thumbing through the pages. Daryl gives a loud huff. "What is it?" Carol asks, checking for the copyright date. "Nineteen seventy-four," she reads. "What's annoying you, Pookie?"</p><p> </p><p>"Had a page saved to show you. 'Deep tissue lacerations,'" he recites. "Recovery periods. Physical therapy. Interesting reading." She adores it when he rolls out fancy words. She knows that even though his native dialect is Georgia redneck, he's secretly more literate than some people with college degrees. It's kind of hot when his book smarts are showing.</p><p> </p><p>"How's that?" she asks, as he takes it from her to find the place again. He flips through several pages, grunts, then hands it back, exaggerating the spot where he's opened it. Carol wrinkles her nose at him.</p><p> </p><p>"Thought we'd be goin' home in a week," he says. "If what that book says is right then we're lucky to get back on the bike in another month."</p><p> </p><p>"Say what?" Carol asks, perusing the section he's marked. She reads with her brows knitted together, emitting an occasional murmur or a hiss of dismay. When she finishes, she snaps the book shut and straightens in her seat on the edge of the tub. "Well it's an <em>old</em> book, but..." She holds the book out to Daryl. He waves it away and she sets it aside on the lid of the toilet. "This changes things."</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, no shit it changes things. We got enough food to last us, what? Another week? Three, if we starve between now and then? Maybe? In the middle of fuckin' winter? What else can go wrong?"</p><p> </p><p>"Well, we haven't had our future date," she offers, somewhat flippant. "Maybe we should hit the gas on that before it gets yanked out from under us, too."</p><p> </p><p>"That's our future date, though," he said. "Thought we were waiting till we got back. I mean, I'm ready whenever you are. Just saying." He's blushing furiously now, but he's refusing to look away and he's so damned cute when he's horny and hopeful and a little scared of what's to come, as is she. Nervous in a good way, for once.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>As it turns out Daryl remembers their talk about a future date, after all. He brings it up again a few days after his fever breaks for the final time.</p><p> </p><p>"Got a question," he ventures, throwing it out there. He's evidently become bolder since his near-death experience. "About our future date. Is it still a thing?" They've finished their lunch, now Carol's messing with the fire and Daryl's sharpening their knives.</p><p> </p><p>Contrary to her initial assumptions, he's already found several bits and pieces of treasure in the interior of the old farmhouse. On one of his forays he located a whetstone, which he's now circling the blade of her knuckle duster against. He's got his two big knives and the hatchet set to the side, ready to sharpen them next.</p><p> </p><p>She's tingling all over as she realizes he <em>hasn't</em> forgotten their future date, so the fever hasn't effected a total memory wipe on him as she's assumed. She wonders what else he's cognizant of that he hasn't revealed. Does he have any recall of her meltdown? Was there more than one? Carol doesn't quite remember herself, the first week was all such a blur of pain and exhaustion and fear. They've both been dragged clear to hell and back, and no one can fault her if she doesn't retain clarity over each last living detail of the prior weeks. Every time she thinks of how close Daryl was to dying, she's practically losing her shit all over again.</p><p> </p><p>He's waiting patiently for her to respond, and slightly amused. His mouth keeps trying to curve up at the corners and the crinkles gather around his eyes. She can tell he knows she's assumed he'd forgotten. He's having a hard time concealing his delight at seeing her squirm.</p><p> </p><p>"Sure, we can talk about it," she manages to consent. She doesn't tell him her worry that talking about it might hex it for them. Make it not ever happen at all.</p><p> </p><p>"How you see that playing out? I mean, what's it look like to you?"</p><p> </p><p>"Our future date?" Just letting the words leave her lips makes her cheeks color.</p><p> </p><p>He stops sharpening for a minute and looks up to catch her gaze. "Yeah. Our future date."</p><p> </p><p>Carol's thought about it before now, but only in her imagination, and not realizing Daryl had any recall about it. She'd assumed it would merely live on forever in her mind with all her other fantasies about him. She wasn't expecting it to be a real thing that <em>actually happened</em>.She's sworn to tell him the truth, and that <em>is</em> the truth, so it's ultimately what she says at all.</p><p> </p><p>"I didn't think you remembered. I didn't think it was real."</p><p> </p><p>"Well it's gonna be, right? I mean, if you still want to."</p><p> </p><p>"I want to," she says, too quickly, and they both flush crimson. Daryl chuffs through his nose and flips the blade over to sharpen its opposite side.</p><p> </p><p>"A'right then, so we're actually gonna do this. When?" He doesn't sound impatient, only inquisitive.</p><p> </p><p>"When we get back? To Alexandria?" Carol clears her throat. "Back home." That word, <em>home</em>, and the feel of it in her mouth. She's not sure whether its possible to have a home anywhere now, or if it's even something to desire or strive for. <em>Daryl</em> is home to her, and he's the only home she'll ever need. "Someplace we feel safe. When we can let our guard down a little. Not -- worry about what's happening outside the...uh, room."</p><p> </p><p>He grins. "Gonna be in a room, are we?"</p><p> </p><p>It's Carol's turn to shift through the red spectrum again as she flushes beyond her control. She's never blushed so much in her life. "Um. Maybe?"</p><p> </p><p>"Sounds good to me. What's in this room?" he ventures.</p><p> </p><p>Now she's grinning. "It's got a bed. Just the one, though."</p><p> </p><p>"Just one bed."</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah. Just one bed. But it's a <em>different</em> bed than the one bed <em>here."</em></p><p> </p><p>"The one bed isn't <em>this</em> bed. Got it."</p><p> </p><p>They can barely look at each other now, but that doesn't stop them from ducking their heads and grinning into their hands as they both facepalm in a titillating mixture of discomfort, arousal and delight. They're in their fifties and nearly <em>giggling</em>, as awkward as two teenagers crushing on each other. Carol thinks it's hilarious.</p><p> </p><p>"Ooh-kay," Daryl drawls, moving on. "So this room with the one bed where we're having our future date. Is it yours or mine? Or someplace else?"</p><p> </p><p>"Hmm. I kind of like your room."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl nods, and switches from the knuckle duster to one of his big knives. "I ain't got a bed though, just a big couch."</p><p> </p><p>"Just one couch," she says suggestively.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl shakes his head. "You're a terrible tease."</p><p> </p><p>"You secretly love it," she asserts.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah," he confesses, shooting her a glance of pure affection. They're swimming in a sea of anticipation neither has any experience with whatsoever, but they're just going to mentally hold hands and keep on treading water together until they get the hang of it and the confidence to head out into the deep.</p><p> </p><p>"So, is this like a day, our future date? Or a weekend, or a week, or what?" Carol asks. "Since we'll be coming home on the heels of this little debacle."</p><p> </p><p>"Hadn't even thought of that. Don't think anyone's gonna expect much from either of us for a while after we get back. I probably won't be able to do any serious shit for a while yet. Think we can get away with askin' for some time right off. Gonna get teased about it somethin' awful, you know."</p><p> </p><p>For being such a private person, he doesn't seem upset at the prospect. It's more of a calm resignation. Acceptance. Another new facet of Daryl, and why not? He's been fascinating her with his evolution for over a decade. He hasn't been the man who began their journey together in years, and he's kept only the best bits of his former self. Daryl at the farm or the prison would have freaked out at the mere <em>thought</em> of the conversation they're now having.</p><p> </p><p>"No doubt," Carol agrees. "I wouldn't dream of depriving our friends of the gossip and amusement." She says 'our friends' but she knows they're mostly in Daryl's corner. A lot of people-- the Oceansiders especially -- are still and might forever be extremely pissed with her for releasing the kraken that is Negan. It doesn't bother her because she truly doesn't give a shit what anyone other than Daryl thinks. Not Maggie, not Gabriel, not even Michonne, should she ever return.</p><p> </p><p>She can tell this line of talk has triggered something in Daryl's mind and she presses him about it. "What are you thinking right now?"</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head. "I'm thinkin' how we're gonna suffer shit unlimited from that fucker Negan. If he's still around when we get back."</p><p> </p><p>Carol can clearly picture this. Negan is a vulgar man, and he will delight in taunting both of them, although probably mostly Daryl, since he's easier to get a reaction out of.</p><p> </p><p>By the time the knives are all sharp and Carol's got the fire merrily crackling and burning it's nearly dusk. They leave off the discussion for now and set about fetching their final water and securing the room for the night.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>Their at first amorphous future date has now solidified into a tangible plan and they're surprisingly eager to talk about it at a moment's notice. The more they talk about it, the more comfortable they become until they're able to discuss some of the details without constantly blushing -- something they'd have deemed impossible a couple weeks ago.</p><p> </p><p>They've both internalized so much about their feelings for each other over the years and their mutual desire is a more than a little volcanic, now they've admitted they want each other. In their current situation, them being who they are and things being as they are, physically engaging for the very first time in an environment where even the slightest amount of fog on the lens can get you killed is reckless. It was borderline reckless behavior that stranded them in the first place. Neither wants their future date to happen <em>here</em>, at this farmhouse where Daryl nearly died and they've both suffered through a living hell. It's a memory to create elsewhere.</p><p> </p><p>In all honesty, they're frightened, too. Frightened of the intensity of their longing and the desperation of some of the glances they've exchanged. Once they lay mutual hands in an intimate manner, it will change their perspectives, their relationship, their consciousness, absolutely everything. It scares the hell out of them but doesn't stop them from looking forward, and their shared anticipation is sometimes more delicious than anything else. It's no longer a point of "if" they're going to do it, but when, and they've adamantly agreed that "where" won't be here.</p><p> </p><p>"Man makes plans and god laughs," Carol warns. She knows she could grab his waistband and give him a tug toward her and he'd be all up in her space that very <em>instant</em>, but this bubble of flirting and teasing and unabashed mutual desire has already been more delicious than either of them ever imagined. It makes her soul sing to know beyond any doubt he wants her as much as she wants him, and sometimes she catches herself feeling happier than she ever has. Which is insane, considering their circumstances, but it's feeding her soul like it's never been fed before and her heart's an unabashed glutton.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>Carol is especially quiet one day, and Daryl doesn't remark on it until they're lying in bed for the night.</p><p> </p><p>"You haven't said much," he mentions. "Everything okay?"</p><p> </p><p>She raises up on an elbow so she can look into his face. "Yes, actually. There is something I wanted to talk about, though." She pauses, seeming to consider how she wants to approach this. "Remember when I told you Ezekiel proposed to me?"</p><p> </p><p>"One of the lowest points of my life," he admits. "Yeah, I remember."</p><p> </p><p>"Did you want to be with me even then?"</p><p> </p><p>He reaches up and brushes a lock of her hair from her eyes. "Hell yeah. Way before then. Years."</p><p> </p><p>"Why... why didn't you ask me <em>not</em> to marry him?"</p><p> </p><p>"Thought it was what you wanted. You said corny was nice."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh my god, Daryl. I wanted you to discourage me."</p><p> </p><p>"How? Declare my undying love and ask you to marry me, instead?"</p><p> </p><p>She purses her lips. "Not necessarily that dramatic, but anything along those lines would have done the trick."</p><p> </p><p>He sighs regretfully. "You know that's not me. And I though you were happy about it. Didn't know you wanted me too. Why would I do that, when you were tellin' me someone who treated you nice asked you to be with them? Why would I wanna ruin your happiness?"</p><p> </p><p>She knows he's right. And it's never been Daryl's way to barge in like that, especially when she wasn't sending clear signals. He's maybe never had a romantic relationship in his life. How could she ever have expected him to step up or speak up after she implied she enjoyed the King's corny attentions?</p><p> </p><p>"You're right. I didn't even hint that it wasn't what I wanted. That's my bad."</p><p> </p><p>"There's no bad. Not like I wasn't hiding too."</p><p> </p><p>"But it's not okay," she choked, starting to tear up. "I <em>hurt</em> you, Daryl. I hurt <em>both</em> of us."</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, you're not to blame, here. I fucked up, too. I could've said something. More than once. It's not all on you. And we're good now, right? That's all that matters. Not gonna worry about what we could've , should've or might've done. It's what we're gonna do from here on out, right?" He's so sincere. "We're gonna talk from now on, not keeping secrets from each other, and so neither of us is wondering what the other's thinking. Like I said, we're good."</p><p> </p><p>"You're way too forgiving," she says, falling back to curl up against his side. She takes his left hand in hers and laces their fingers together. "I'm sorry you were out in the woods all that time, all by yourself. I used to think of you on stormy nights, about you being out there alone in that shitty, leaky tent. Was it because of Ezekiel? Why you stayed away for so long?"</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't speak at first, but his initial silence is confirmation enough. "Couldn't stand to see you with him, <em>happily married,</em> all that. Not that I wasn't happy <em>for</em> you... I was. It just...hurt that I wasn't a part of it, you didn't have that with <em>me</em>. Stayed away so I didn't have to watch you be happy with someone else. How's that for childish bullshit, huh? Some best friend."</p><p> </p><p>Now it's Carol's turn. "Hey. You never did anything wrong. We didn't know, and both of us, well, we're kind of messed up in the first place. Getting both our asses beat to a pulp for years by people who were supposed to love and protect us. I don't blame you. Don't blame yourself. Either one of us could have said something, but we didn't, and we can't change it now, except to stick together moving forward."</p><p> </p><p>"Just feel bad for the wasted years. Maybe shit wouldn't have happened the way it did," he muses. "If we'd been together at the prison, Rick would've never run you off like that. He wouldn't have dared. So much might've been different. Whatever happened with the girls maybe wouldn't have..."</p><p> </p><p>She knows he's wondered, and since her first night back with the group, when she told him she needed to forget it, he hasn't asked again.</p><p> </p><p>Carol sits up in the bed. "I'm going to put more wood in the fire. And then I'll tell you what happened with the girls." She crawls out from under the warm blankets and stirs up the embers and throws three good chunks of wood on. She might be up a while now, so no point in letting the fire die down before it has to. When she gets back into the bed, the fire's roaring and painting the room in dancing, flickering light. She lays down with her head on Daryl's shoulder, and he tilts his head to the side to rest against hers.</p><p> </p><p>"It was bad," she says finally. She's almost whispering. "It was bad, and I should have seen it coming, and then it was too late, and all there was left to do was to make certain it would never happen again."</p><p> </p><p>"Whatever you did, you did it because you had to. I know you. I know that much."</p><p>
  
</p><p>She buried her face in his shoulder. "I murdered a child, Daryl," she chokes.</p><p> </p><p>He wraps an arm around her and nuzzles the top of her head. "That's the brush you're painting it with but, like I said, I <em>know</em> you. You didn't do a goddamn thing you didn't have to."</p><p> </p><p>How he keeps such blind faith in her has always been a mystery. All he ever did to check her during the entire Whisperer War was to ask her "Will you stop this shit?" and beg her to talk to him. And to physically restrain her the one time when she tried to put a bullet in the skin queen. He's not saying anything, just holding her close and stroking her hair, careful not to dislodge the knot she's wrangled it into for the night.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you remember the rats in the prison?" Carol finally asks.</p><p> </p><p>"I remember rats every fuckin' where we've been," he rumbles.</p><p> </p><p>"I mean the ones that were ripped open and nailed to a board."</p><p> </p><p>She feels him nod. "Oh, those rats. Yeah, saw one or two. Weren't there some headless rats left out by the fence? Someone was feeding' the walkers." She feels him tense. "Was it one of the girls? The older one, right?" There's an odd note in his voice she can't quite discern.</p><p> </p><p>"That's right," she confirms. "It was Lizzie." She sits up, clutching the comforter to her chest because it's cold. The fire is a small inferno but most of the heat goes straight up the chimney. "How did you know that?"</p><p> </p><p>He's gazing up at her and the firelight dances in his blue eyes, through his fringe and across the planes of his face and how can she be seeing him this way and thinking of him this way and feeling this spark when they're talking about the most terrible thing she ever did?</p><p> </p><p>"Knew a kid, once," Daryl began, "We ran with the same crowd a while. Anyway... he did shit. To dogs and cats. To whatever the fuck animal he could chase down andcatch, actually. We got any cigarettes left?" he asks abruptly.</p><p> </p><p>She appreciates the subtlety of how they've gone from being <em>his</em> cigarettes to <em>theirs</em>. "Yeah, I think there's still a couple." She steels herself against the cold again and slips quickly out of the bed, padding in her socks to his vest and fishing the pouch from his pocket. There are three cigarettes left in it. She takes one and scurries back to the warmth of the bed.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl sits up as she crawls back under the covers. "Cold out there." He swaddles himself with most of the sleeping bag as Carol picks up the lighter off the nightstand, lights the cigarette and hands it to him. He takes a couple long, thoughtful drags, then passes it back to her and exhales, blowing a couple of smoke rings. "So this guy..."</p><p> </p><p>"This guy," Carol says, mildly exasperated and rolling her eyes. "You know I was trying to talk about something really heavy, right?"</p><p> </p><p>"Something that sounded an awful lot like you shittin' all over yourself, I dunno how heavy it is. In a minute," he says impatiently. "Got something to say here."</p><p> </p><p>"You just needed a cigarette before you could say it."</p><p> </p><p>"Nah. You mostly needed it. Right?" She hands it back to him and shrugs, but she's secretly impressed by how well he obviously <em>does</em> know her. "Okay, so meanwhile, back at the ranch... " she says. "This guy...?"</p><p> </p><p>"This guy did shit to animals. Creepy, psycho shit. Acted almost normal, otherwise. Always thought he seemed fake, and his eyes... its like... like there was nobody home. When you looked in his eyes, they were empty."</p><p> </p><p>She passes the cigarette back, and he takes a drag and returns it. "So?"</p><p> </p><p>"So that Lizzie girl? She had the same kinda eyes. It's like... part of a person in there, and part... reptile."</p><p> </p><p>She's blinking at him in shock.</p><p> </p><p>"So whatever you 'did,'" Daryl says pointedly, "You didn't murder a child. You put down a monster. I <em>know</em> you, Carol. That kid I told you about? When he was sixteen, he killed his parents and his sister and his baby brother. Bludgeoned 'em all except the baby. Hung <em>him</em> from the shower rod. Said he was just settin' 'em free." He plucks the cigarette from her fingers before she burns herself with it. She's staring at him with eyes like saucers. "No one can fix people like that. There ain't no doctor and there ain't no pill. They're born busted inside in a way makes 'em dangerous. Some of 'em are boring, and some are nice, and some are just plain scary." He sounds like he's had experience with all three types.</p><p> </p><p>He sips one last hit off the cigarette and grinds it out in the soap dish Carol has the presence of mind to pass to him. She hasn't said anything for a while. She takes the dish back and sets it on the side table, still silent.</p><p> </p><p>"People like that never change, they're broken forever," Daryl concludes, retreating with her out of the cold and into the warmth of the bed where they pull the covers up over their heads like parka hoods . "Most people see blue where they see red. You can't fix it. No one can. All you can do is to put 'em down. They're always gonna be too dangerous to let off the leash, they're never gonna change. They can't, they're born that way. Their heads aren't right." He pauses. "Anyway... continue your story. Sorry to interrupt."</p><p> </p><p>She's clutching an armload of the comforter to her chest and she's still not saying anything. Carol feels like she's been marching down a long, dark corridor ever since the grove, and all of a sudden Daryl's shown her a doorway leading out of it. It makes her crime seem almost... justified.</p><p> </p><p>"Who'd she kill?" he asks, after enough time's passed it's evident she's not going to speak.</p><p> </p><p>Her throat is dry. "She stabbed her sister to death. She wanted her to come back, to <em>change</em>. She thought the walkers were people and she wanted to show us. She was going to kill Judith next. But Daryl, she wasn't cold like the kid you knew, she was an emotional girl -- "</p><p> </p><p>"Kid I knew was real emotional too, but usually about the wrong stuff. You did the right thing. The only thing." He pulls her close again, careful not to bind their bodies in a way that might lead to other endeavors. They are already both well-schooled in restraint. "I dunno why you get stuck with all the killin' and other shit that eats at you. Someone has to do it, and you only do what you have to. No telling how many lives you save when you take one. Psycho, Savior, or cannibal, don't matter.You're not out there mowing down the innocent, and that's never <em>been</em> you. You gotta let it go, Carol. You're not cursed. You're not evil. You're not damned."</p><p> </p><p>She lies still in his encircling arms, and she can feel some of the heaviness in her spirit dissolve and drift away. "Then what am I?"</p><p> </p><p>He nuzzles her head again. "You're my best friend and badass girlfriend. Told you already."</p><p> </p><p>"That you did." She nestles as close as she dares in the moment. They're two pairs of pajamas and an arm's breadth away from passing the point of no return.</p><p> </p><p>"You're the person who saves everybody," Daryl assures her, "you feed people, you patch people up, you stopped the Wolves, you got Negan to kill the Alpha. You don't need to take shelter from the storm... you <em>are</em> the storm. "</p><p> </p><p>"Where does that put you? In the eye of the hurricane?" she murmurs, embarrassed but oddly pleased, too. She's obviously nothing short of heroic as far as he's concerned. She can't believe how much lighter she feels. The burden of guilt weighing down her heart is now dissolving and floating away. An old and tireless ache, fading at last. Carol blinks, tears coat her eyelashes and her vision is haloed in flashes of orange and gold from the firelight. She's almost certain he's got no idea of the magnitude of what he's just done, that he's given her absolution when nothing and no one else could.</p><p> </p><p>********</p><p> </p><p>Flirting is their new, preferred method of communication. They've confessed their mutual attraction, and they taunt each other although it's usually Carol doing the taunting. Some days it becomes a competition like their back-and-forth about the bed, that ends with one or both of them laughing so hard their abdomen cramps or they gag on their own spit.</p><p> </p><p>"You want me to draw you a diagram? Pictures of what goes where?"</p><p> </p><p>"Think I can figure it out. Just, you know, might require an assist with some things, like what works best for you. Can I... undress you?"</p><p> </p><p>"I think I'd like it if you undressed me," she says. She's arranging their dwindling food supplies and taking inventory, but she pauses to face him as she speaks so she keeps his undivided attention. "If you'd like that. I mean, I understand if you <em>don't</em>, or if maybe you <em>don't</em> want a light -- or <em>not</em> in the daytime -- "</p><p> </p><p>"Stop," Daryl warns with mock sternness. "You're so hot it burns my eyes sometimes, and I've only seen you with clothes <em>on</em>. So don't. I can't wait to admire every last inch of you." He's getting bolder with his truths, but not always able to meet her eyes while declaring them. He's picking up in the room and tosses an empty box of the ancient stale scout crackers into a trash bag. "And yeah, I absolutely do want to undress you, too," he adds. "Why I asked. So I'm glad you're good with that."</p><p> </p><p>They finish a few more tasks and mull back and forth over the idea of undressing each other on their future date and who's going to take what off whom first and what happens after that, and so on. This is how things go most days and while they're not being terribly productive, they're indisputably enjoying themselves. For the first time in forever, they are filled with hope. They paint word pictures of their future with the trust and raw honesty of their evolving relationship and the pictures change colors and textures but are always of the two of them, together, in ways they haven't been before.</p><p> </p><p>They don't pretend about their eagerness to share the bed anymore. They make it a point not to ramp things up beyond a certain temperature before retiring for the night. It's too dangerous. It would be easy to throw away their plans for their future date and just fall on each other like a pair of animals in heat. When the temptation's too great, one of them rises and spend the rest of the night on the loveseat. So far, once was enough for each of them and they've minded themselves since. They haven't even kissed and consider it part of their future date. Both agree even crossing that boundary is too much temptation.</p><p> </p><p>They're well aware of their own limits. It's a balm to both their egos that they constantly need to rein themselves in. They're playing with fire, and it's the most fun they've ever had. Lobbing that flame back and forth until they're ready to hold on to it together. Which could be any time, and maybe should be, as their desire increases and gradually overcomes their apprehensions, but they've laid out their plan now and they're trying to stick to it. They're like a couple saving it for their wedding night, although both cringe at the remotest whiff of this interpretation and avoid using the words in any capacity.</p><p> </p><p>It also gives them opportunity to get used to what's going on with them in the first place. Neither has any prior experience being genuinely in love, and while like the marriage thing, they aren't using those terms and don't intent to start now, it's clearly what's happening. Having assumed they'd never know such an experience with the person they've pined after forever, both are mentally unprepared to deal with what all it involves. The existence of their future date gives them breathing room and a space to transition in. Ir provides an open expanse where the tectonic plates of their bond can shift and adjust and expand to accommodate the monumental changes their impending new reality will bring.</p><p> </p><p>They don't say it outright, but they know once they touch each other beyond the pats and hugs and hair stroking they've been living on since forever, it's the point of no return, whether they're prepared to handle it yet, or not, and they're relatively certain they're not quite ready to handle it, yet.</p><p> </p><p>"Barely able to focus on anything now, I can't imagine how my mind's gonna wander after our future date," Daryl grouses. "Probably fall asleep at the switch on watch or on a hunt and get someone killed."</p><p> </p><p>"Well, we'll just need to restrict you to mundane tasks until you can hold yourself together again, Pookie," Carol assured him. "Gotta admit, I'm looking forward to <em>completely</em> wrecking you."</p><p> </p><p><em>"Stahhp</em>. Jesus. I'm in pain, here. It ain't a myth. Have a little mercy."</p><p> </p><p>"Your leg?" Carol asks, eyes sparkling. "Is it hurting?"</p><p> </p><p>"Not my leg, and you know it," he grumbles, and shifts uncomfortably. "You know exactly what you're doin' to me."</p><p> </p><p>"Just you wait. I haven't even started -- " She stops suddenly, listening.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl's instantly on alert, his uncomfortable arousal forgotten. He gathers up their knives and the gun, careful not to clomp too loudly across the wooden floor as he crosses it to hand Carol her knuckle duster and the pistol. They stand together in tense silence.</p><p> </p><p>"What is it?" he whispers.</p><p> </p><p>"Not sure. Sounded like a rod, or a stick? Something wooden, striking." Carol frowns and shakes her head. "Could have been a big branch falling from a tree. It is that time of year."</p><p> </p><p>"Im'a go onto the porch and check things out."</p><p> </p><p>"You most definitely are <em>not</em>. Might be somebody out there with a gun. Or worse."</p><p> </p><p>"Ain't much worse'n a gun," Daryl observes dryly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Lucille?"</em>
</p><p> </p><p>"Okay, you win. So now, what?"</p><p> </p><p>"We check the window, first." They shuffle over to the mostly boarded-up window and peer out into the cold and desolate landscape. It's stopped raining. It's as if they're frozen in a time warp out here. Suspended in the unreal reality of this old farmhouse that sat dormant for a decade, occupied only by memories and the walkers of its two former inhabitants. Since they started flirting and planning their future date, it's been their own post-apocalypse Shangri-La. The problem is, they have that fire, and the smoke is probably drifting for miles and attracting who knows who or what out there. It's such a beacon they might as well be chumming in shark-infested waters.</p><p> </p><p>"I don't see anything," Carol says after several minutes. "Gonna go out into the main."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm coming with you."</p><p> </p><p>She starts to refuse, then relents. "Okay, then. Let's go." They pull on their coats and leave their bows and the mace in the room. He only has a single hand free for a knife, and she's got her knife and a hammer and the gun.</p><p> </p><p>They check out the view from various windows in the living room and kitchen and detect nothing moving or amiss. Carol considers bundling up and venturing out to roam the perimeter. Daryl clearly thinks this is a bad idea.</p><p> </p><p>"You don't know who's out there or how many or anything. We got a better chance fighting something together than apart, right?" She hates that he's right, but she stays indoors and they curl up on what remains of the couch -- sans cushions -- and silently watch the surrounding landscape for a while.</p><p> </p><p>They've been sitting in a watchful, yet comfortable silence for a while when a lone red fox comes out of the oak grove and trots all the way up the driveway toward the house. It's a beautiful animal, it's winter coat thick and lush. It seems to float among and around the skeletons of the wild boars like a ghost, then to their complete surprise, approaches and delicately ascends the porch steps. It spots them watching it and to their utter amazement, plops its furry behind on the boards in front of the nearest window to regard them through the glass.</p><p> </p><p>"Are we seein' this?" Daryl asks quietly.</p><p> </p><p>"I think so. She's beautiful, isn't she?"</p><p> </p><p>"What makes you think it's a she?"</p><p> </p><p>"You ever seen a <em>guy</em> that foxy?"</p><p> </p><p>Daryl groans. "That was terrible," he says, "try again."</p><p> </p><p>"I know it's lame, but its all I had. I wonder why she's come up here to watch us like this. Maybe she wants to know where all the chickens went."</p><p> </p><p>"Maybe it's confused. Or rabid. Or maybe people domesticated some of 'em, you know, then they went wild again after the Turn. Me and my brother had a pet raccoon, once."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh yeah? How did that work out?"</p><p> </p><p>"It didn't. You can't take the wild out of a wild animal." He doesn't offer anything extra about the pet raccoon. "Some things, <em>especially</em> wild things, it's better to just leave 'em be. It's not unnatural that fox is here checkin' us out. They're real curious, and I think maybe it's never seen people before."</p><p> </p><p>The existence of wildlife unfamiliar with the presence of humans is relatively new, a gift from the apocalypse, and they're not sure if it's a good thing, or a bad thing. The bear she tangled with wasn't too worried about the problem of Carol. Humans are increasingly becoming more prey than predator, first fed on by the walkers, then by the cannibals and other bipedal monsters now freely roaming the continent. It makes sense the animal kingdom's getting a place at the table sooner or later.</p><p> </p><p>They watch the fox and the fox watches them. It doesn't seem inclined to leave anytime soon. It's a delicate looking creature, and it's gleaming fur seems to bleed bright orange, white and black into the atmosphere around it. Amber eyes regard them with curiosity and intelligence.</p><p> </p><p>The fox closes its eyes, still sitting upright, and appears to doze a short while. Eventually it yawns and rises to it's feet, stretching like a cat, then leaves without a backwards glance. They watch it trotting away across the yard until it disappears between the withered blades of the overgrown grass in the former pasture.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl reaches for her hand and gives it a squeeze. Carol squeezes back.</p><p> </p><p>"We're gonna be okay," he says reassuringly. "We're gonna get through this and get the fuck out of here and we're gonna make it back home and have our future date." He looks up from their linked hands to her pale blue eyes. "If sayin' it makes it real, then I'm gonna bring it up every damn day until it is."</p><p> </p><p>"Sounds like a plan. I'm all in." She tightens her hold on his hand, then releases it and wraps both of hers around his upper arm, shuffling closer to him and leaning the side of her head against his shoulder. They don't hear any more strange sounds, although an owl or coyote or maybe even the fox that just visited gets hold of a rabbit in the distance. It's shrill and desperate death cry pierces the silence. They pay it no more mind than the call of a screech owl.</p><p> </p><p>They watch the winter sun go down. The sunset is brilliant, with vivid splashes of crimson and orange and gold morphing into pinks, purples and the deepest of star-speckled blues with just a tinge of green above the horizon. They spend long, rare minutes mesmerized by nature's shifting color palette. It's been easy to forget, but there's still so much beauty left in the world, beauty that has nothing to do with the presence or absence of people and will continue to exist long after they're gone.</p><p> </p><p>Carol sighs. "It's just been us out here, and sure, we could use some help, but I kind of like it with nobody else around. Just the two of us, together."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl slips his arm around her shoulders to pull her closer and nuzzles the top of her head as she leans further into him. "I like it, too. Wish it wasn't the middle of goddamn winter with us running out of food and I can't even walk, though. Kinda kills the buzz."</p><p> </p><p>The sun is long gone now and the night chill is rapidly descending upon them. The stars are beginning to flash and wink in the cold heavens when they finally rise from the couch together and return to their room, where Carol stirs up the fire and soon gets it roaring while Daryl set out to prove he's not discouraged by a little disability and he fills the water buckets and manages to maneuver the loveseat around so it's barricading the bedroom door.</p><p> </p><p>Carol watches him in silence until he's finished. "You fall down and break a bone or open that leg up again, I'm going to be really annoyed with you, Daryl."</p><p> </p><p>"Can't stand feeling useless. Sorry. You're just doin' every damn thing, all the heavy lifting, and I've been digging through cupboards, whittling kindling and sharpening knives."</p><p> </p><p>"A sharp knife is a must have."</p><p> </p><p>"You know what I mean."</p><p> </p><p>"I do know what you mean, but you need to take care of that leg. We can't stay here all winter and if we have any more setbacks, we're screwed."</p><p> </p><p>He nods begrudgingly. Both of them know she's right. She takes on a conciliatory tone. "If that's where you find your value, Pookie, I'll happily assign you all sorts of menial slave tasks when we get home."</p><p> </p><p>"There goes that mouth, again."</p><p> </p><p>"Hard to keep it under control."</p><p> </p><p>"I got some ideas."</p><p> </p><p>"Do you now?" Carol queries. "Please share with the rest of the class."</p><p> </p><p>He clomps over to where she's standing in front of the mantle, then sighs and shakes his head when he sees her unsuccessful attempt to mask her grin. It's good Daryl gets around, but the contraption really does look ridiculous and it has a distinctive scuff-thump with every step he takes.</p><p> </p><p>Carol steps up to him in the firelight and cups his face in her hands. "You're my knight in shining armor," she says, "You don't need to shove the furniture around to prove it." She feels the heat of his blush against her palms. He gazes into her eyes with open adoration which she reciprocates, and she's positive god's going to strike her dead soon because she can't possibly be this happy and still get to live.</p><p> </p><p>"Comin' from the woman who killed a bear with a hammer, sewed me up, kept my ass alive <em>and</em> took down a bunch of hogs, <em>and</em> hauls all this damn heavy firewood every day, that's a pretty high compliment," he says.</p><p> </p><p>Now it's Carol's turn to blush. Daryl has bent far enough forward their foreheads are nearly touching, and she can feel the warm puffs of his exhalations on her skin. Aside from hugs, this is the closest than they've deliberately been while on their feet, ever. She can't stand the intensity for long, the spark and sizzle that ignites between them and threatens to burn them to ash. They're both eager to act on it but it's nerve racking too. She's glad they've granted themselves this window of adjustment in which to get used to the idea of sharing a closer proximity, both mentally and physically. She's savoring every single step of this new journey they're on together.</p><p> </p><p>"You're in your head again," he says lightly. "You got these little 'tells' for things." He draws back enough he can see her face while they talk. "When you're pissed off, when you're sad. When you're tellin' a fib, or when you got a happy secret."</p><p> </p><p>She gives him a tilted smile. "I do? What kind of tells?"</p><p> </p><p>"Well that'd be telling and then you'd know how <em>I</em> can tell," he backtracks. "Your secrets are all safe with me."</p><p> </p><p>They hug a <em>lot</em> now, never passing up an opportunity and there's no time like the present. They enfold each other in an embrace, after Daryl gets a good enough "footing" on his quasi-crutch that he can maintain his balance and won't topple over. They've probably hugged five times today alone, and a sixth is just icing on the cake. Standing in front of the fireplace -- Daryl mostly standing -- holding onto each other and just taking a moment to themselves. They only separate when the kettle starts boiling over.</p><p> </p><p>Carol makes them both the freeze dried coffee that doesn't really taste like coffee, then takes her hair down and brushes it out, leaving it loose. They blow on the hot liquid and sip it carefully, Carol sits on the stacked couch cushions in front of the fire next to the armchair where she's insisted Daryl sit. He's still recovering and tires easily. She can tell he's too tired to argue about it tonight when he drops into the chair without a word.</p><p> </p><p>"How much longer now?" he asks.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm not sure. That book says physical therapy doesn't even start until after six weeks, so you tell me."</p><p> </p><p>"We can't stay here that long."</p><p> </p><p>"Daryl, you're preaching to the choir." They go over this nearly every night, but it's worth teasing out over and over again if there's a chance they'll stumble across a new solution, something that gets them out of here sooner. It's only going to get colder between now and the end of February, and every day they're out here with that fire going is another step closer to catastrophe. All things considered, they've been extremely lucky so far, but that can change in a heartbeat.</p><p> </p><p>"I'll start checking a wider perimeter tomorrow," Carol says. "See if anyone's been around. Take my bow, maybe bag something to eat."</p><p> </p><p>"What about your elbow?" he asks.</p><p> </p><p>"I can handle it, now. I need to be able to shoot with it. That Dutch oven's not going to fill itself."</p><p> </p><p>"You wanna take the crossbow?" he offers.</p><p> </p><p>"I would if I'd used it before, but I haven't, so I don't trust my ability to hit anything with it at all. It's fine, I'll take the bow and if I can't draw it, I'll just set some snares and come back. I should probably set snares anyway. At least we might get the occasional rabbit." She doesn't bring up the fact that Daryl is a hundred times better at setting snares than she is, and the likelihood of her actually catching anything in one of hers is not very. She fishes the last stick of dried bear meat from the basket and twists and breaks it into small pieces, mixing it into some raw rice and water. She opens a pouch of beef gravy mix and adds it to the pot, stirring to mix everything, then lids it and suspends it from the hook, swinging it partially over the flames.</p><p> </p><p>"That the end of the bear?" he asks.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah. It is. Lasted quite a while though, considering." The edges of her mouth twitch up in a little smile.</p><p> </p><p>"What?" Daryl asks.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, I was just wondering. You know, there's a lot of Native American legends and lore, and I'm wondering whether any of them have anything to say about eating the bear that tried to kill you. You know, like maybe you absorb the spirit and courage of the animal or something."</p><p> </p><p>"Means my girlfriend's a badass. Don't need no legends or lore to tell you that."</p><p> </p><p>"Am I your girlfriend?" she teases. "Are we <em>going steady?</em> You going to let me wear your letter jacket? Invite me to prom?"</p><p> </p><p><em>"Stahp</em>. And yeah, you are. My girlfriend." She can tell the words feel both pleasant and strange to him as he says them. "Unless you wanna be something else. You just tell me what words to use, and I will."</p><p> </p><p>"I don't know what we are," she says, serious now. "I mean, yes, of course I am, but we -- its so different -- " Carol trails off into silence, trying to put words together to say what she means. "There aren't any words in any language for what you are to me. I can't imagine the world without you in it. When I thought I was going to lose you --" Her voice fails her, and she clears her throat. "When I thought I was going to lose you, I wanted to die with you. I probably would have, because I can't live without you. I can't. I don't want to." She offers him a wry smile. "So whatever that is or however you describe it, that's what you are to me."</p><p> </p><p>He regards her with shining eyes and doesn't speak, but he reaches over and strokes his hand slowly down the shimmering silver fall of her hair, coming back up to cup the side of her face in his palm. Except for the time he wiped her tears away,it's the first he's ever touched her like this, and the newness makes it much more intimate than a hug. She leans in and closes her eyes. Carol knows she must be dreaming. She's lost inside one of her hopeless domestic fantasies and soon she'll awaken to find that none of it was real. The warmth of his hand against her cheek feels real, though, as does the right-on-time evening ache awakening in her elbow.</p><p> </p><p>"Wanna turn in early tonight?" he asks, hesitant.</p><p> </p><p>"That sounds like a plan. Count me in."</p><p> </p><p>"Are we bein' silly? Or stupid?"</p><p> </p><p>She swivels around to face him. "What do you mean?"</p><p> </p><p>"Our future date... planning and talking about it all the time. Actin' like kids. Like that."</p><p> </p><p>"No, it's not silly at all. To be honest, I'm having so much fun... is it supposed to be this much fun? Planning a future date?"</p><p> </p><p>"You're askin' me?" He snorts. "I got no idea. Ain't nothin' wrong with anticipation. Sometimes, though? I'm ready to just throw caution to the wind and... do what we wanna do."</p><p> </p><p>"Don't start that, it's too close to bedtime if we're crashing early. Once the genie's out of the bottle, Daryl, there's no putting it back. Do you honestly think either of us are ready for our future date tonight? Here and now?"</p><p> </p><p>"Right. You're right." They're both thinking about what he said though, clear up until they're crawling into bed. They'll wake up freezing because when they go to bed this early the fire burns out. They've tried various ways of banking the coals but an open fireplace isn't a wood stove. Unless Carol rises in the night, the fire will die. She's strictly forbidden Daryl from messing with the wood in any capacity until he can actually stand on both legs unassisted.</p><p> </p><p>They go through their nightly rituals, each preening in their way. They take turns going into the bathroom to change, dressing in soft, loose-fitting sweats or pajamas -- which there are an odd abundance of in this house, as it turns out -- and curl up together beneath a small mountain of covers. They blow out the candles and lie either facing one another in the dark, or usually Daryl on his back and Carol on her side to his left. They can cuddle, but they're cautious and careful, too. They've designated certain areas and activities "off limits." They'll snuggle chastely and touch each other's hands, but that's the line once they're lying down together. They don't dare take it beyond that, in the bed. Too risky. They're committed to their future date, and neither of them wants to have to crash on the loveseat in the dead of winter. Talk about blue balls.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>She patrols the perimeter now, traveling about a hundred and fifty yards out around the house and outbuildings. Sets a few snares but hasn't caught anything. Carries her bow, but hasn't seen anything. She's done this twice a day for four days, and seen two walkers the entire time.</p><p> </p><p>"It's like this place is saturated in walker repellant," she says, after coming in out of the cold. They're eating rice and trying not to act like they're both sick to death of it. Daryl hadn't said a word about Carol's unsuccessful hunting and snaring ventures. "Except for the dead animals bringing them in, I don't think there'd been walkers here in years."</p><p> </p><p>"Seems I remember a giant herd coming through that first night. Case you forgot. Guess you spend so much time thinking' about our future date there's no room left in your mind for any other thoughts."</p><p> </p><p>"No, excuse me, Pookie, that would be <em>you</em> who can't get your mind off our future date. Even when you're sleeping -- <em>especially</em> when you're asleep --"</p><p> </p><p><em>"Stahp</em>. Oh my god."</p><p> </p><p>"It's true."</p><p> </p><p>"Okay, but you got the unfair advantage. Can't see it when it happens to you."</p><p> </p><p>"Well, it most certainly does. It might be happening right now."</p><p> </p><p><em>"Carol</em>. Im'a go sit and finish my lunch clear over there by the door if-- "</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, no, stay, I'll be good. Promise." She loves to make him squirm and doesn't even try to hide her grin anymore.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>She's taken her bow and gone hunting before dawn. It's a crisp, frosty morning and still dark when she sets out, although the glow of the new day is already brightening the horizon and the resident crow family is awake and calling back and forth. Carol gives them a wide berth and tries to escape their notice. They'll point her presence out to the world if they spot her, and she needs to be successful now. Their food situation is getting a little more desperate every day.</p><p> </p><p>Carol travels in the opposite direction of the crows and slips into the oak grove where she and Daryl surveilled the house on their approach. How cocky and confident they'd been that day, thinking they'd just cruise in here and sweep through, gather spoils and return home. This has been a truly frightening experience, and while the settlements aren't the safest places either, they're fortresses compare to this. She's going to learn to appreciate that after they make it back. That is, if they ever make it back to begin with.</p><p> </p><p>She sees movement out of the corner of her eye and turns to glimpse a red fox -- the same fox? -- slipping out of the trees and heading into the sea of grass that used to be a pasture. It stops, pauses, and glances back at her.</p><p> </p><p>Carol doesn't know why, but something about the fox is reassuring. She doesn't consider it a threat, and its clearly not rabid. Maybe it's wondering what the hell they're doing out here this time of year, they are so obviously the only humans to come around for years.</p><p> </p><p>She's approaching the back side of the grove where they stopped to surveil the farm, hiking around a wide perimeter, and thank god she hears the turkeys before she sees them. They're all strutting and scratching at the ground on the side of the driveway where it passes through the timber. There are at least a dozen of them, and most are big toms with long red beards. They're full of themselves, pecking and digging at the dirt, oblivious to her presence.</p><p> </p><p>Carol doesn't waste any time deciding or planning what to do -- she reaches slowly back and lifts an arrow from her quiver, nocks it, and draws her bow. Her elbow protests, but not as much as she anticipates. She takes aim at the biggest turkey and releases. The rest of the flock scatters, but the big tom lies dead with her arrow through it's heart and she feels a huge surge of relief.</p><p> </p><p>Carol retrieves her arrow and take the bird off into the trees a ways to pluck and gut it and cut off the head. She saves and shoves the liver, heart and gizzard into the body cavity, then carries it proudly back to the house by the feet, listing to the side a little and surprised by the bird's weight. Even dressed out, it's a good twenty pounds. She carries the turkey with her left arm.</p><p> </p><p>The fox is pacing and waiting at the edge of the tree line and she knows as soon as she's what it deems to be a safe distance away, it will go to the gut pile to feast. The animal suddenly stops and aims a glance at the far edge of the field between the oak grove and the house. It's standing poised like a statue with one paw raised. Carol looks in the same direction the fox is for a long time, but she sees nothing. She continues toward the house and out of the corner of her eye, sees the fox heading into the trees in pursuit of its prize.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>"Holy shit," Daryl says when he sees the bird. "Jackpot."</p><p> </p><p>"That's what I say. Should we try to roast this guy, or just hack him up and fry him?"</p><p> </p><p>"Makes my mouth water just hearing you talk about it. Why'n't we do it half and half?"</p><p> </p><p>"You say you wanted a half-and-half?" she asks, winking seductively.</p><p> </p><p>It takes him a second, then he's turning pink. "Oh my god. <em>Stahp."</em></p><p> </p><p>They end up slicing up most of the breast to fry and roast the rest because the rich, dark meat will fare better amongst the flames anyway. Carol throws the giblets into a hot pan with some yellow gobbets of fat and fries them up, adding only a sprinkle of salt. She makes sure they're done all the way through, but that doesn't stop the two of them from crouching over the pan the entire time they're cooking, like kids waiting on Christmas morning. When she's satisfied they're cooked through, Carol replaces the giblets with more fat and some slices of turkey breast, and they share the giblets while they're still hot. She pulls the liver in two with her fingers while Daryl bites off half the heart and hands her the rest. Carol does the same with the gizzard. They quickly devour these treasures, then salt and fry pieces of the skin till they're curling and crisp in the pan, trying to eat them too soon and burning their mouths and fingers. They sink back into their seats by the fire and wait for the meat to cook.</p><p> </p><p>Carol lays the turkey legs in the Dutch oven with the wings and some water and seasonings and rakes some coals onto the hearth to set it on. She shoves the turkey's body onto the crane arm and pushes it just to the edge of the flames. Once the wood has burned down into a bed of coals, she can swing the roasting bird out right over the top of them. "It's a redneck rotisserie," she jokes.</p><p> </p><p>It takes a long time for the turkey to be done enough they deem it safe to eat, and when it's ready they gorge themselves until they can't eat another bite. Carol periodically rotates the carcass on the crane as it roasts and checks the contents of the Dutch oven. After they eat, she yawns and gets up to change into pajamas. "Turkey's knocking me out," she explains, in response to his look of puzzlement.</p><p> </p><p>"That's a myth," he declares, but he kicks off his boots and lays down on top of the blankets fully clothed. "The tryptophan in turkey don't put you to sleep."</p><p> </p><p>She sighs. "It's hot when you use fancy words like tryptophan," she murmurs.</p><p> </p><p>"Will you stop?"</p><p> </p><p>They nap for a couple hours, then get up and add more wood to the fire and eat again. It's pretty much their pattern until the turkey is gone, which takes three days. At the end the third day, Carol dries the remaining meat she can strip from the bird on a window screen propped close to the fire.  They're sick of the turkey by the end of the second day, but they force themselves to eat every possible bite. When the meat is picked off the bones, Carol boils them down to make a broth. She strains the broth and walks the bones and remaining meat that was too fatty to dry across the property to leave them off the road and near the tree line where she knows the fox will find them.</p><p> </p><p>Three days after the fresh turkey's gone, she wakes up in the morning and Daryl is standing by the bed on his own two feet.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh my god," she says, sitting up quickly. "How does it feel? Are you walking on it?"</p><p> </p><p>He gingerly sets his weight on the leg, then releases, flexing it a couple of times. "It's sore and super stiff, feels like a piece a' petrified wood in there, but it just needs some stretching. I mean, obviously I ain't using it much for a while, but at least I can stand and walk on it now."</p><p> </p><p>Carol throws back the blankets and slips off the bed out onto the cold floor and wraps her arms around him in a full body hug. He reciprocates, and it doesn't take long for him to respond in ways that rapidly turn things awkward. Carol huffs and releases him, taking a step back. She keeps hold of his arms just above his elbows and looks him up and down and shoots him that glittering side eye from under a raised eyebrow. "You're standing up... in more ways than one."</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, you're the one threw yourself at <em>me," </em>he says uncomfortably. "It'll go away, just ignore it."</p><p> </p><p>"I'd rather do something else with it," she confesses. Her body's responding to the signals from his in tantalizing ways and she's both a little fascinated and a little frightened by it. She hasn't felt anything remotely like this since she was sixteen years old.</p><p> </p><p>"You and me both. Are we ready for that?"</p><p> </p><p>"Are <em>you</em> ready for it?" she asks, all teasing and coyness aside.</p><p> </p><p>There's a long, lingering moment when they're poised on the brink, a heartbeat away from just saying the hell with it and falling onto that bed together. Their desire's so strong it's almost a third presence in the room.</p><p> </p><p>"Honestly?" he manages, speaking with difficulty, "I don't know. I really don't want to remember it happening <em>here</em>... " He gestures around the wreck of a room they've been shacked up in for weeks. It's a lot of things, but a romantic memory maker isn't one of them.</p><p> </p><p>"No, no, I get it, and I agree," Carol assures quickly. She snatches up her boots, a change of clothes and a candle, and retreats into the bathroom. She comes out seconds later, buckling her belt. "So when can we get out of here? Can you ride the bike? Should we -- "</p><p> </p><p>"Whoa, whoa, slow down, I just stood up ten minutes ago," Daryl backpedals. "I wanna get the hell out outta here too, but let's just wait a sec. I don't even know if I can walk across the damn driveway."</p><p> </p><p>Carol leans forward to rest her forehead against his chest. "Sorry, Pookie. I got a little excited for a minute." She unleashes a snort, and straightens up, smirking. "So did you."</p><p> </p><p>"Don't take much for that to happen," he admits. He barely even blushes. Hesuddenly has an unexpectedly bold question for her. "What are you most scared of... about us... you know? Doing the deed."</p><p> </p><p>She has a quick answer. "I'm scared you'll look at all my scars and stretch marks and decide you're not interested, after all."</p><p> </p><p>"Carol, you gotta know that would never happen, right? You're beautiful to me however you are."</p><p> </p><p>"You say that now, but I'll feel better about it when I see it for myself." She turns it to him. "What's <em>your</em> fear?" It's pretty evident to Carol what his fear is and it's just reinforced by his answer.</p><p> </p><p>"'Afraid of bein' a three-second wonder," he confesses, looking down at his feet.</p><p> </p><p>"You ever had a girlfriend before me?"</p><p> </p><p>He gives her a look of disdain. "I been laid."</p><p> </p><p>"It's not the same thing, Daryl."</p><p> </p><p>He nods and ducks his head, biting his lip."I know."</p><p> </p><p>Once again, the answer's clear. She doesn't push him. The pressure to perform is a weight on most men, for Daryl it's got to be like the world's biggest boulder crushing him into the earth. He's such a sensory, emotional being. "There are a lot of... different ways to <em>perform</em>," Carol offers. "They don't require the same kind of stamina." She abruptly visualizes him licking his fingers like he always does and of course he can't see her thoughts but her color changes to scarlet just the same.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl's watching her intently from behind his fringe and the corners of his mouth twice upward in a nearly imperceptible smile. "I learn fast. Just need lessons."</p><p> </p><p>"Well, let's find something else to do right this minute or school's going to start now," Carol suggests, stepping back and away from him. How does he do this to her? She's supposed to be the one with all the restraint. Her entire body's on fire and they haven't laid a hand on each other, unless you count that hug.</p><p> </p><p>"Should we start packin'? I can't wait to get the fuck out of here. Place gives me the creeps. Feels like it's cursed, or haunted. A million walkers, then none. All them pigs showin' up. The bear. That fox."</p><p> </p><p>It's eerie he mentions this because Carol feels the same. It's as if this farmhouse has some kind of dark enchantment on it. It's given them food and warmth and shelter which they most definitely would not have survived this long without and it's the place where they finally bared their deepest feelings for one other, but it's also given them the agonies and frights of their lives and they want almost nothing more than to get away from here forever.</p><p> </p><p>"That's not a bad idea," she says. "There's not enough left to stash and come back for, so we can pack up all except what we need to get through another day or two. That's is, if you can handle riding the bike. Or bracing it, if we have to stop." The more her mind revolves around the idea, the more her doubt builds. "We could be planning prematurely, you know."</p><p> </p><p>"I can ride," he says resolutely. "We can go today."</p><p> </p><p>"Daryl. Today's too soon."</p><p> </p><p>"This place is cursed, or somethin.' We need to get outta here before what the fuck ever evil spirits rule the roost come back to peck at our livers again. I'm not kidding." There's a tinge of real fear in his voice and it immediately infects her.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay, so wait, let's just think about this. How much have you walked? I mean, what, you got out of bed and walked around the room? That's it?"</p><p> </p><p>He shakes his head. "Went out to the porch. Living room, kitchen. Checked to see the coast is clear."</p><p> </p><p>So he's walked around the house a bit already. "How's it feel?"</p><p> </p><p>"Aches. Itches. Stiff. Like a big bruise. It fuckin' hurts, what do you want me to say? Rather get it back someplace where it can heal in peace." He points at the contraption, lying against the wall. "I been takin' that off a few times while I was upstairs. You know, got used to using the leg, and that way, if it didn't work out we wouldn't both be disappointed."</p><p> </p><p>So he really is ready to leave. All of a sudden she can't wait for and is simultaneously scared shitless of their imminent future date. She doesn't know which is responsible for the majority of the adrenalin coursing through her veins right now.</p><p> </p><p>"Carol?" he asks cautiously, as she begins to fade and fizz out into panic. "You all right?"</p><p> </p><p>"I'm good," she declares, giving herself a mental shake. "You're right. There's something about this place. I can sense it too, and I don't like it, either. Let's get the hell out of here, but let's do it smart." She gnaws on her thumbnail and casts her glance around the room. "We can shoot for tomorrow. Get all our shit together today, and head out first thing in the morning." She raises her eyebrows and waits for his response.</p><p> </p><p>"Sounds good to me."</p><p> </p><p>Now they've decided on a course of action, both are immediately galvanized into motion. They start picking up and packing like their lives depend on it. There's a few boxes remaining of the ancient stale scout crackers and they quickly decide to abandon them, not wanting to inflict them on anyone else. Neither of them is saying it out loud, but the sooner they return to Alexandria, the sooner they can get around to their future date. It's both exhilarating and terrifying.</p><p> </p><p>They gather up any clothes they're taking back, which in Daryl's case isn't much other than some sweats and pajamas Carol found that fit him, and she crams them into her backpack because she knows he won't. She sets the loaded pistol on the nightstand where's it been living for a while. There's one extra bullet and she keeps that in her pocket. What's left from the pantry to take back -- mostly seasonings and spices -- fills half a pillowcase.  They spend most of the short daylight hours preparing for departure and making sure they didn't overlook anything. It's late afternoon when they finish. The hardware is the heaviest cargo by far and they haven't decided how they're going to carry them. Daryl drags in a box from the front room and they load all the hammers and screwdrivers into it, except for the largest framing hammer, which Carol shoves between her belt and her waistband.</p><p> </p><p>"That the one you used on the bear?" Daryl asks.</p><p> </p><p>She offers him a faint, sideways smile, and winks.</p><p> </p><p>He smiles, and shakes his head in admiration. "My girl's such a badass."</p><p> </p><p>"Hmph. Right now, your girl's going to be a wood hauler. I'll load us up for the night. For the last time. Oh my god Daryl," she clutches briefly at his arm, "are we actually going to get to leave here together? Alive?"</p><p> </p><p>"We ain't outta here yet," he says quickly. "Haven't started the bike. Haven't even gone down the damn steps. Let's not get ahead of ourselves." He picks up the medical book and puts it in his pack.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay, party-pooper, but I'm going to load the wheelbarrow, anyway."</p><p> </p><p>"Well, fine. Im'a go upstairs and see how this leg does climbing. Make sure I didn't miss a treasure up there." It bothers him to let her haul all the wood, and she knows it's easier for him if he can get out of eyeshot when she does it.</p><p> </p><p>I can't believe we're actually going back," Carol says, wonderingly. "You suppose everyone believes we're dead by now?"</p><p> </p><p>"Wouldn't you?"</p><p> </p><p>Carol thinks of how many times her old self has burned away and she's been reborn. How many times the others thought she was dead or otherwise gone forever. She's a phoenix, once again rising from the ashes, except in this new incarnation she's feeling victorious and reborn in all the right ways. "I don't know. If anybody's going to survive, it's us, don't you think?"</p><p> </p><p>"Can't wait to see all their faces when we ride up to the gate," he says, strapping his big knives onto his belt as she pulls on her coat and heads out the door.</p><p> </p><p>She stops on the steps as she always does, and surveys the surrounding landscape. It's a partially cloudy, chilly day. It hasn't rained in a couple of days, but everything's damp. There's a slight breeze from the south that almost seems to carry a breath of warmth in it.</p><p> </p><p>It's when she's halfway across the driveway that Carol spies the fox. It's been watching her during her wood-gathering forays since she bagged the turkey and she's almost come to expect to see it, usually sitting on the edge of the field, which offers a safe vantage point to observe her from. She raises her hand in a little wave, and smiles. The fox suddenly gets to its feet and fixes its attention on the far end of the field. Spotting a rodent or a small bird, no doubt. She's seen it pounce and catch them before.</p><p> </p><p>She carts the wheelbarrow into the barn and loads it up, thinking of how she isn'tgoing to miss this chore one little bit. She takes the wood back to the house and carries it, an armload at a time, into the bedroom. Now they've decided to leave in the morning, she doubts they're going to sleep a wink, and she might as well bring in extra fuel for the fireplace. The fox is nowhere in sight when she returns to load the wheelbarrow. Killing and eating some unsuspecting small mammal, no doubt.</p><p> </p><p>She comes out of the barn with the final load of wood with her head down and looking at the ground because it's muddy and rutted at the barn door and she needs to balance the load carefully to avoid dumping it. So when she glances up and sees a strange man standing to the side of the barn not six feet away it take her completely off guard.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, <em>hello</em> there, Silver," he says with a grin.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*******<br/>I had waaayy too many chapter end notes and deleted them. Sorry for any confusion.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Destroyers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Carol is wondering how this guy snuck up on her. Thank god he's alone, or at least he seems to be. She sets down the wheelbarrow and plasters on a phony, friendly smile and unleashes a laugh that betrays none of the turmoil going on in her head. It's a wonder he can't hear her heart pounding. "Well hello right back, you startled me!" she said, with an exaggerated Southern drawl. "I haven't seen anyone else in weeks!"</p><p> </p><p>She sweeps her eyes over him, assessing the threat, trying to be subtle so he doesn't detect he's being scanned and analyzed. His clothes are filthy and tattered, his skin blotched with dirt and his hair and beard are scraggy and matted, telling he's been living on the road. It's the hardest time of year for that, so whatever else his appearance speaks to, the primary message she takes from it is that he's a desperate man.</p><p> </p><p>He's watching her carefully and her internal alarms are all clanging at top volume, even as she smiles and puts on skillful airs of artificial openness. This man's known chameleons like her. She can see it in his eyes. He's familiar with her game and waiting for her to finish her move so he can take his turn on the board.</p><p> </p><p>"That's a convincing performance, lady," he hisses, "but something tells me you're about as harmless as a timber rattler." He draws a pistol from inside his threadbare coat, aims it at her face and gestures for her to disarm and drop her weapons.</p><p> </p><p>Carol can see the chambers in the small revolver in his hand are full, but she can't tell if it's loaded with real bullets, or soot-rubbed wooden blanks. They're a common ploy this far after the Turn, and about eighty percent of the loaded revolvers left in their world are loaded with fake ammunition. It's a strange anomaly of deceased America. Still, she can't chance it, and she can't read him well enough to determine whether he's bluffing or not. The unnatural, hushed way he speaks is unnerving. Something about him reminds her of the Wolves and the Whisperers, it's a feral undertone that speaks of a capacity for savagery that is not to be messed with. One wrong move, and he's liable to take her down. She can't let that happen.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, okay, then," she says, carefully removing her bow and quiver, her knife, and the hammer she's carrying. She lays them all at her feet, backs away a step, and raises her hands, slow and deliberate. She offers an apologetic smile. "I just try to stay ready for the dead ones, you know? Sometimes they come around by the thousands." She gestures at the trampled earth at their feet and surrounding the house.</p><p> </p><p>The man takes note, but he's also studying her hard. Waiting for a flinch or a flicker, or perhaps he's waiting for her to whip a straight razor out of her coochie. Carol snorts a chuckle.</p><p> </p><p>"Something funny?" he demands.</p><p> </p><p>"Just... I don't know. The dead aren't the worst thing. It's other people. It's just funny, I guess." She studies him the way he's studying her. "Funny how people never change, or learn anything. Just making the same mistakes over and over again."</p><p> </p><p>"That's funny to you?" he repeats.</p><p> </p><p>"It's fucking hilarious," she says, throwing herself at his gun arm and grabbing the pistol with both hands above and below his, twisting the barrel and his fingers backward as hard as she can. The gun doesn't go off, cementing her suspicion that whatever he has filling the cylinders, they're not live bullets. She reefs on his fingers with all her might and feels two of them snap as they make a brittle sound like dry twigs breaking.</p><p> </p><p>The man grunts in pain and backhands her hard across the face with his opposite arm. Carol spins and reels sideways to connect with the side of the barn, ears ringing and her nose and jaw burning where he struck her. She catches herself against the building and maintains her feet, instantly pushing off to lunge at the gun he's dropped and deliver a kick that sends it spinning twenty feet across the gravel.</p><p> </p><p>The man runs at and shoves her hard, and she lands on her side, barely missing the wheelbarrow full of wood and within arm's reach of the weapons he made her drop. She claws her way toward them and manages to scoop up her knuckle duster. She rolls out of the way and up on to her feet in a motion liquid and graceful as a cat, just as the man lands face first on top of the spot where her body was a second ago. Carol drops every ounce of weight she can muster onto his lower spine with both knees, seizing his greasy, thinning hair in her hand and pulling his head back until he's looking straight up at her. She lays her blade against his throat and demands, "How many in your group?"</p><p> </p><p>He lets out a cynical laugh, then speaks in a bizarre, rasping near-whisper. "You'll find out soon enough. Wish I could watch. You'll pray for death, bitch."</p><p> </p><p>Carol has few choices. If she tries to pry information from him, he'll make noise, and she doesn't have the time. He confirmed he wasn't alone. His companions could be anywhere, and she's got no idea how many of them there are. Leaving him alive isn't an option. She pulls the steel hard across his exposed throat, and keeps a firm grip on him to direct the arterial spray away as he twitches and gurgles, dying. They're so close to the wheelbarrow the man gushes blood all over the tire.</p><p> </p><p>When he's beyond recovery or fighting back, she releases her grip and climbs to her feet. She scans her surroundings and trots over to the pistol he dropped, picking it up. As she suspects, the cylinders have pieces of charcoal in them, cut to the size of bullets. A total bluff.</p><p> </p><p>"Asshole," she spits at the man's now quiet form. She returns to his side and stabs him in the head, wiping her knife on his pants. Her heart rate has barely increased except for when he knocked her against the side of the barn. She's going to feel that, tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>She's trying to decide what to do about the body when something hits her.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>Carol comes to as she's being dragged across the driveway by her long hair, her boot heels digging furrows in the gravel. The pain rips her violently out of unconsciousness. She's aware of the situation a split second before revealing her awareness, and forces her body to remain limp and compliant. Every nerve ending on her scalp's screaming from the fisted grip on her hair, and she flashes back to the nightmare days with Ed when he'd grab her by it to throw her into walls, onto the garage floor, into the dirt, didn't matter, she'd fly to wherever he flung her and, if she was lucky, nothing inside of her broke when she landed. She's feigned blackout during beatings before.</p><p> </p><p>The dragging abruptly stops, and Carol hears booted feet scuffling on the ground in a circle around her. She counts four or five -- it's confusing because her ears are ringing so loudly it's hard to discern much else. The hand holding her hair releases, and she drops face first to the ground. Her lower lip grinds into her teeth and she tastes the salt tang of blood on her tongue. Eyes closed and fighting to remain still, Carol lies there and takes in her surroundings as well as she can without seeing.</p><p> </p><p>The man who was dragging her gives her a kick that blooms pain in her hip. He calls out to the others in a loud whisper, "You see what she did to Jack?"</p><p> </p><p>"Don't know it was her," one of the others murmured, barely audible. "Nobody saw it."</p><p> </p><p>They speak in tones so strangely quiet it's unnatural. Its not quite whispering, but it's close, and gives Carol the creeps separate from all the other creeps going through her in the moment. Just what they need, another cult of crazies. Because why the fuck not, since they've been visited with every other awful thing in this place outside of their own deaths. She nearly laughs.</p><p> </p><p>"Shut the fuck up, Jimmy. You're an idiot. Who else woulda done it? Santa Claus?"</p><p> </p><p>She hears and senses the first man's movements as he's winding up to kick her again -- then he checks himself.</p><p> </p><p>"That's enough," a fourth voice huffs. This one seems to have some authority with the others. "Save a little for the rest of us, Ace. If you're going to share a meal with your friends, you don't bruise up the meat before anyone can eat."</p><p> </p><p>The rest of the men guffaw in their weird, hissing way, breaking the tension, and a couple of them hock and spit. They shuffle their feet uneasily and Carol knows they're all watching her lying there, limbs sprawled every which way like an abandoned marionette, her unbound hair sprayed around her head in a silver halo covering her face. Her mind starts galloping. Does she have her knife? Did she replace it in the scabbard before she was hit? The hammer? Was it taken afterward? She has no sensory awareness of its presence on her body. She has a moment of gratitude that Daryl's got the gun. It gives him a fighting chance.</p><p> </p><p>"This the one you watch?" the fourth man asks.</p><p> </p><p>The man who kicked her and dragged her across the yard -- Ace -- stands over her and spits on Carol's back between her shoulder blades. "This is her. Killed J like a dog. Opened his throat right up."</p><p> </p><p><em>"This </em>bitty thing?" the fourth man asked in disbelief. He had the strangest manner of speaking so far, airy exhalations bearing bursts of words. "Hell you say."</p><p> </p><p>"Hell I don't, Hy. Only other thing moving around here is that fox and I don't think it's the culprit." Carol hears and senses him shifting position, maybe thinking of spitting on her again, or worse.</p><p> </p><p>The brief silence that follows is loaded and Carol feels the hair rising on the back of her neck. She's pretty sure she knows what's planned for the second act. Ace rolls her onto her back with a booted foot, then uses the same foot to pull the waterfall of her hair from her face. One of them lets out a bestial growl.</p><p> </p><p>"Damn," Hy says.</p><p> </p><p>They all shift uneasily around her. "Take her inside," the youngest whispers. "Cold out here."</p><p> </p><p>"Sure she's alone?" the man who'd called Jimmy an idiot asked.</p><p> </p><p>"Seen no one but her." Carol feels the tug as Ace bends down and pulls her knife from the sheath at her belt, then removes the hammer from the other side. She watches through the veil of her eyelashes as he hoists the hammer and makes a face before handing the hammer to Hy. At least her weapons' whereabouts are no longer a mystery.</p><p> </p><p>"You can stop pretending now." It's the man with no name. The gravel crunches beneath his approach and his boot nudges her ribs. "Know you're awake. Get up, or we drag you some more." His voice betrays an eagerness to carry out the second option. Carol recognizes that particular dialect. She was once chained in lawful wedlock to a man like him.</p><p> </p><p>She opens her eyes slowly, and they're standing in a circle around her near the porch steps. None of them have guns, or if they do it's a concealed carry and that's unlikely. She knows how to spot a shoulder holster, a magazine. The best she can determine, these men are armed with only knives. There's not a single bow or other visible long-range weapon among them. If any of them are packing heat, it's another empty gun.</p><p> </p><p>"The fuck happened here?" Ace observed, walking around the skeletons on the ground and surveying the carnage, amazement raising his voice into a nearly normal speaking tone. "Is that a goddamn <em>bear?"</em></p><p> </p><p>Carol sits up, but she's not talking and she stares down at her hands, trying to think. There are four of them. She wonders if they're from a bigger group, or only a scruffy cluster of wannabe gangsters. Their weapons are all for close combat and their clothes are in tatters except for the one called Hy. He's found a way to dress like a raggedy dandy and she'd be impressed and maybe even a little intrigued if she wasn't also certain he's the most dangerous man among them.</p><p> </p><p>They circle her like wolves and she can almost smell their lust. Carol wonders which one of them will try to take her, first.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>Ace and the third man grab hold of her upper arms and escort her swiftly up the porch stairs and into the house between them with the others following. They lift her so the toes of her boots skip over the steps on the ascent. Carol doesn't try to fight them. There's no point. She's completely unarmed and they're much bigger than she is. In the living room they stop, and she listens for the crackle of the fire from the bedroom and there's nothing, and she's never been so grateful for silence.</p><p> </p><p>She wonders if Daryl's aware there are several people inside now. He'd said he was going upstairs, and when he does that to avoid beating himself up over all her wood hauling, he typically goes to the furthest reaches of the furthest room so as to be oblivious to her hard labor. With this hissing squad of reptilian excuses for men, unless he noticed their footfalls, he may still be unaware. It's uncharacteristic when he's been so paranoid about her leaving his sight since she came off the boat, and it's part of the dark spell this place seems to carry.</p><p> </p><p>They've both been inattentive in ways that cost them dearly already, ways they wouldn't ordinarily be. Daryl was right, her head's been filled with their future date and not permitting room for much else. Now she's surrounded with no idea where he is, and she's completely unarmed and outnumbered. All of their weapons -- except Daryl's knives and what the men took off of Carol -- are in the bedroom. The crossbow, the morning star. The hatchet, the rest of the hammers. The fully loaded revolver. If Daryl's in the room, even with his bum leg they can handle this. If he's still upstairs, they're in trouble. Carol's ears continue ringing and she can feel a throbbing ache on the back of her skull where she was struck.</p><p> </p><p>"There's no fire in here," the nameless man grumbles, barely audible. "What the hell?"</p><p> </p><p>"You got the brains god gave an earthworm," Ace hissed in a mocking tone. "In another room. Obviously."</p><p> </p><p>"Gonna bring you an ass kicking," the nameless one promises. "You won't soon forget." His hands tighten on Carol's bicep. "Want some of this now. Hy?"</p><p> </p><p>"Help yourself, Paul, but save enough for your friends." He doesn't offer details, but his tone carries the implicit threat of consequences for excess greed.</p><p> </p><p>Paul swivels his gaze to meet Carol's. He's a disheveled man, balding early and with bad teeth. He stares at her like he's a kid in a candy store who's managed to sneak behind the counter. The lust emanating from him turns her stomach.</p><p> </p><p>She wonders briefly if her future date with Daryl was a mistake. Not the date itself, but their restraint. Maybe they should have flung themselves at each other full tilt as soon as he recovered enough to get it up. Maybe they should have had what they could, when they could. They'd be doing it like bunnies by now and she wouldn't be asking herself these questions. Then she realizes it doesn't matter, because these men don't stand a chance. No one's going to rob them of their future date, especially not this disheveled pack of dirty jackals.</p><p> </p><p>She's struggled with killing in all it's forms, she's been excited by it, revolted by it, looked forward to and dreaded it to the depths of her soul. For a while she'd counted her kills like some shell-shocked war veteran, and she'd agonized over not only the lives taken with her own hand, but other lives lost in the periphery, collateral damage. She's believed the only way to avoid killing is to have no contact with other people at all. In the end, it's only a fantasy. To live in this world, you must be willing to kill and know how to do it. It's the new law of longevity and there is no other way for those who survive.</p><p> </p><p>Paul grins at her and licks his chapped, scaly lips. He reminds Carol of a lizard. He pulls down the zipper of the coat she's wearing and shoves his icy, bare hand inside, squeezing her breast through her shirt. She maintains her silence.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl knows they've got her with them if he's able to discern the voices. Carol can't hear the crackling of the fire, so maybe noise is muffled more than they'd thought. She doesn't remember if she reloaded the pistol and its getting harder by the second to think clearly. Her body's kicking involuntarily into Ed victim mode and pretty soon she's going to either rise up and rip them all limb from limb, or completely shut down. Her mind hasn't made itself up, yet.</p><p> </p><p>Paul roughly pulls her coat off and flings it to the side, then grabs and rips open the front of her shirt. Just seizes the fabric and yanks hard toward him. A button flies off directly into his eye and the other men erupt into eerily contained and quietly bizarre, clucking laughter. Paul flinches violently and clamps a hand to his face. He releases her, cursing in that breathy way they speak. Carol remains standing in defiance, feet firmly planted and her shirt hanging open. She's mentally inventorying the items surrounding them and which she can use as a weapon. By all appearances they're outfitted for hand-to-hand combat only. None of them seem to be carrying long range weapons of any kind, which informs her they don't hunt animals. They're outfitted to do their business all up close and personal, and this means the only things they hunt are human.</p><p> </p><p>Hy steps forward, all cocky alpha male, and he rips the remnants of the shirt off her body and pulls out an actual switchblade. In different circumstances, she might ask him what movie set he's escaped from. He holds the handle up in front of her face and the blade clicks open an inch from her nose. Carol doesn't even blink and regards him coldly, still silent. She's determined not to cry out. Daryl's reactionary. If he thinks they're <em>hurting</em> her, he'll throw all caution aside, and he's still massively disadvantaged by his injury. She doesn't dare look up the stairs or anywhere he might be. She prays he's in the bedroom with all the weapons.</p><p> </p><p>Hy cuts through her bra in the front and a sigh of disappointment escapes her. She's had this bra for a very long time and it's a little like losing an old friend.</p><p> </p><p>"Don't worry, sweetheart," Hy exhales, "the devil will give you a brand new bra in hell." He takes her left nipple between thumb and forefinger, pinching it hard. Carol narrows her eyes and winces but doesn't make a sound.</p><p> </p><p>"So that it?" he asks, pinching the opposite nipple and getting the same response. "Gonna be tough? Not. I'll make you beg. Believe it."</p><p> </p><p>The fact he's cutting her all clothes off while she's standing there tells her they don't plan on leaving her alive. What use does she have for clothing if she's dead? She remains straight and silent, trying to mask her growing apprehension as Hy slices off her cargo pants. He begins down at her ankle, and Carol flashes on the first day here, when she was out in the driveway cutting Daryl's pants leg up to the knee after the wild boar tusked him. It seems like years ago but was only weeks. They aren't even the same people they were then.</p><p> </p><p>Carol realizes her former self burned away again the night she thought Daryl would die -- once again, she was consumed by the fire and reborn from the ashes. She's still evolving, and after so long of wanting and waiting to die herself, she's not ready to end her journey. She's willing to brave whatever degree of immolation necessary, she'll become the inferno itself and fry for all eternity if that's what it takes because after everything, there's no way she and Daryl aren't coming out the other side of this nightmare, together and alive. Not if Carol has anything to say about it. She's going to pull the phoenix act again and he'll be at her side this time when she rises from the ashes of her former self. No one and nothing is taking that away from them.</p><p> </p><p>Hy hesitates when he notices she's not wearing underwear. Carol manages to meet his surprised gaze with an unreadable eye. He grins, all scraggy beard and yellowing teeth, and finishes slicing the fabric enough that he can just let go of what's left and the remnants of the pants fall to puddle around her left foot. He lays his icy hand on her hip and runs it slowly down to her knee, then he looks up to meet her eyes, and he grins. "A silver fox," he breathes.</p><p> </p><p>She nearly asks what it is with their crew and silver and catches herself before she speaks. Maybe it's their fetish. The way they vocalize and laugh is creepy enough, anything is possible.</p><p> </p><p>Hy straightens and backs away to admire her as he closes the switchblade.He visibly has an erection now, as do all the other except Ace, who seems largely disinterested and has moved away to lean against the far wall, looking out the window at the darkening landscape. The rest of them are staring at her, first in pure lust at her nudity, then it metamorphoses for some into a mixture of fascination, shock and revulsion at the myriad scars peppered all over her body. Gunshot wounds, knife wounds and cigarette burns, and that's just the beginning.</p><p> </p><p>Hy inhales and releases a deep, slow breath of admiration. "Whatever the fuck else you are, you're a survivor. Damn near immortal. Maybe we'd want to keep you around for a while, after all." He shrugs. "Then again, probably not. A bitch is just a bitch... a mouth to feed, and to fuck, and to piss me off."</p><p> </p><p>He kicks her feet out from under her with a sweep of his leg and she lands hard on her back.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>From her lowly vantage point on the floor, Carol quickly scans her surroundings and sees there's a framed photograph on a side table nearby. She can't tell whether the clear layer is plexi or real glass, and it could be a fatal mistake if she guesses wrong. There's a lamp on the table and a pair of sheepskin slippers beneath it. Next to the slippers is a knitting basket with several balls of yarn and a pair of large purple knitting needles.</p><p> </p><p>Her head's still ringing so loud she can barely think. She must be concussed from the hit she took outside the barn, and the way her skull just now ricocheted off the floor doesn't help. Daryl hasn't shown and it's got her a little worried as she's now wondering whether he's even in the house. They've become awfully lax lately, living in their own personal Shangri-La with both their heads so far up the ass of their future date they've nearly forgotten there's still monsters and marauders and destroyers roaming the earth.</p><p> </p><p>She's lying there stark ass naked and sprawled on her back with the group of marauders surrounding her like she's a carnival prize. Her gaze flits back and forth around their faces as she lets out a whimper and imitates the frightened mouse she used to be. She's beginning to think Daryl isn't in the bedroom, which is unfortunate. He has only his knives and she's been stripped of hers and the framing hammer. It occurs to her that if Daryl went in the furthest reaches of the upstairs to avoid watching or hearing her haul in the wood, he may not even realize what's happening yet. She'd hit the floor pretty hard, but from a distance and through walls it wouldn't sound much different than if she'd dropped a big piece of wood.</p><p> </p><p>She can reach one or possibly both of the knitting needles, and Carol steels herself to wait for the right moment to go for it. She's only going to get one opportunity. There's no need to worry about the men seeing them, the basket is tucked against the wall beneath a side table and not visible from a standing position.</p><p> </p><p>Paul swaggers over and kicks her ankles apart, walking up as far as her knees and standing in between her legs. He takes hold of himself through his pants, lifts his junk and gives it a squeeze, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "First we'll fuck you," he whispers, "then we'll eat you... cooked medium rare on the barbie." He drops down to kneel on top of her and crouches over her prone body, bringing his dirty face close to hers. There are gray shreds of something between his teeth.</p><p> </p><p>Carol whips her arm out and seizes one of the knitting needles, grabs hold of his ear to hold his head where she wants it and brings the needle down in a vicious arc through the side of Paul's opposite cheek and out the bottom of his jaw next to his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>She twists away from beneath him and lunges up from the floor in an effort to escape, and he reflexively darts his hand out and seizes the only thing he can get a grip on as she flees, a handful of her pubic hair, literally grabbing her by the crotch as she springs up and away from him. Carol's forward momentum rips out at least a third of the hair between her legs. She lunges with all her force against the pain, a flaring agony and sense of unbearable pressure. She has a vivid, blinding burst of the memory of delivering Sophia. Ed wouldn't let them give her anything for pain, and she'd screamed her way through the last several hours of labor, losing her voice for days.</p><p> </p><p>This pain is every bit as excruciating and is instantaneous. She lets out an involuntary and blood-curdling shriek, stumbling into the couch at the sudden release as she forces herself to rip free of his grasp. Her crotch is on fire, a supernova of white hot pain. Paul has abandoned the whispering altogether and is roaring in pain and outrage, blood dripping down and off his face. He has one hand clamped to his cheek and the other's clutching a fistful of what looks like wiry grayish fur with a few shreds of bloody flesh clinging to it.</p><p> </p><p>As the others close in on her, Carol hears rushing footfalls and shoots a desperate glance up the stairs just as Daryl, who must have heard her cry out, hurries around the corner to see her backed against the couch, nude and surrounded by the invaders, the inside of her thighs smeared with fresh blood. The shock and fury in his eyes is like nothing she's seen in them before.</p><p> </p><p>Then everything seems to happen at once.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl staggers halfway down the stairs and braces against the wall. He unsheathes and instantly throws one of his big blades across the room straight into Jimmy's forehead, killing him instantly. Carol takes advantage of the diversion and lunges for her slashed cargo pants, fumbling in the pocket for something as Paul yanks the knitting needle from his face after a major effort, the metal screeching against his jawbone. He holds the slightly bent knitting needle in his bloody hand and stares down at it in shock.</p><p> </p><p>Carol finds what she's looking for, rises to her feet, and nimbly slips a looped zip tie over Paul's head, ratcheting it around his throat as tight as she can. She winces against the shooting pains in her elbow as she tugs hard on the plastic tie with a grunt. It sinks so deeply into his flesh it almost disappears, closing off his airway and blood flow. Paul is instantly spinning and reeling away, sputtering, his face rapidly turning purple, Carol and the knitting needle both forgotten as he claws at his throat.</p><p> </p><p>Ace grabs Paul's arm as he flails past and hands him Carol's recently honed and extremely sharp knuckle duster. In a final, desperate effort to save his own life, Paul attempts to cut the plastic tie off his throat. He tries digging the blade around, beneath and out the other side of the plastic strap and in his frantic desperation -- since he's panicking now and beginning to black out -- ends up slicing his own artery open. Blood sprays and bubbles out of him and Carol wrestles her knife from his slippery, dying hand as Hy ducks Daryl's second big blade and rears back to throw the framing hammer at him.</p><p> </p><p>As things have generally gone for them here in this possessed place, the hammer hits Daryl in his injured leg, bouncing off his shin. She can tell it's the handle that hits him instead of the head of the hammer because she <em>hears</em> it, but it nearly puts him down anyway. He staggers against the wall with a yelp and catches himself short of falling. Carol sees the pain and torment in his face and she can't tell if it's from his thinking they raped her while he was oblivious, or from the agony of the hammer hitting his wounded leg, or both.</p><p> </p><p>She whirls with the speed of a snake striking and slashes at Hy with her knife. He ducks back and away, but not before she lays open a bloody, gaping gash below his ribs on his left side. He looks at her with a mixture of shock, surprise and amazement, then clamps his hand to the wound and lurches toward the front door, immediately throwing the fight.</p><p> </p><p>Carol pivots to Ace, who's raised knives in both hands and wears a wicked grin. "Bring it, bitch. Let's get it on."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl's picked up the hammer Hy threw at him and now he hurls it at Ace with every ounce of accuracy he can muster. Ace has to duck to avoid a full-on hit but the hammer still connects nicely with the elbow of the arm he's thrown up to shield himself and he drops the knife he's holding in it. Carol takes advantage of the opening this provides. She darts in with her recently sharpened blade, grasps his other wrist and stabs him deep in his liver four, five lightning fast staccato hits. She releases him and steps back, and he drops the remaining knife to clutch at his side, everything else forgotten. While he's in the paralysis of shock at the wounds, which are fatal in and of themselves and instantly bleed profusely, Carol snaps a kick into the side of his knee, dropping him. She approaches him a final time, seizes him by his greasy hair and rams her blade into his temple. His body crumples to the floor and she yanks the knife loose.</p><p> </p><p>Carol immediately turns her back and walks over to the hammer, picks it up, and hoists it with familiarity. A faint, speculative smile plays across her lips. Her crotch is burning like it's engulfed in flames and she feels the blood slick between her thighs. With the hammer in her right hand and her knuckle duster in her left, she heads determinedly for the door.</p><p> </p><p>"Carol, wait!" Daryl calls to her. He's struggling to stand but she can't help him with that right now. She opens the door and darts, still naked, out into the frosty, twilit dark.</p><p> </p><p>********</p><p> </p><p>She can tell which direction Hy went because he's melted a bloody path in the frost through the overgrown pasture he fled through. It's already dark and below freezing, and the ground crunches in places beneath her bare feet where the soil hasn't thawed for days. Her breaths huff out in rhythmic white clouds as she pursues the last of the marauders through the grass. Carol slows as she enters the rustling field and moves in stealth and silence until she can hear his labored, painful breathing up ahead. He's just inside the tree line of the same oak grove where she shot the turkey.</p><p> </p><p>Carol stops a safe distance away and waits until she detects he's weakening, then she approaches in minute, silent increments until she can pick him out in the darkness. He's sitting on the ground against the trunk of a big tree, hand clamped to his side and exhaling hard, frosty breaths. He looks in Carol's direction, and gasps.</p><p> </p><p>She steps out from the shadows, a vengeful wraith in the moonlight, weapons at the ready.</p><p> </p><p>"We can forget this," Hy says.</p><p> </p><p>Carol steps closer, confirms he's incapacitated, and checks the hammer to make sure the claw end is facing the right way. She turns her icy gaze back to meet his, and a long moment passes before she finally speaks in his presence for the first and only time. "You hurt my man," she says.</p><p> </p><p>His harrowing screams last less than a minute and stop abruptly. Carol wonders vaguely if the noise will bring another horde through, but it's too late now. She shouldn't have indulged her dark side, but the son of a bitch had it coming. She regards the dripping hammer and wipes it off in the grass. There's no need to use her knife on the corpse.</p><p> </p><p>She's halfway back to the house and sees what at first she thinks is a walker stumbling her way, but it's Daryl, who's barely upright on his bum leg and determined to come to her aid. She's certain he heard the screams, and that he knew they weren't hers. He's carrying the comforter under his free arm, and she lets the hammer drop to the ground, forgotten, still holding her knife in the opposite hand. She feels disconnected and numb. She wonders how she looks to him, stark ass naked in the moonlight, her hair loose and wild, covered in scars and in blood that is not all hers. She stands there, waiting for him with a halo of steam rising from her body, generated by the heat of exertion.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl approaches her almost carefully. He holds the blanket out in front of him like he's offering her her coat, and she steps into his arms without expression as he wraps the comforter around her shoulders. He pauses to retrieve the hammer and pluck the knife from her hand, tucking the hammer into his belt and keeping a hold of her knife as she clutches the comforter closed in between her breasts, trembling. Daryl wraps his free arm around her shoulder and they make their painful, laborious way back to the house. Carol veers briefly toward the barn to retrieve her bow and quiver of arrows, dropped when the first man -- Jack -- confronted her.</p><p> </p><p>The bodies in the living room nearly send her into a panic. "Walkers might come, we need to get them out of here." She drops her bow and quiver and flings off the comforter in a single motion, walking over to Paul's body and grabbing it by the belt. She starts tugging him toward the front door and it's slow going because he's stiff with rigor mortis and her elbow's weak. It's like trying to shift a big log on the beach. Daryl goes to her and gently lays his hands over hers until her grip softens and she releases her hold. "They'll be okay overnight. Most of the noise was outside and away from the house." She knows he's right.</p><p> </p><p>Carol can't focus. She feels like an essential element tethering her to her humanity has separated from her soul and is drifting off into the void. She turns to meet Daryl's eyes at last, wondering what he sees in hers. All she sees in his are love and sadness. He eventually averts his gaze and picks up the comforter and offers it once more. This time she approaches him as he wraps it around her and lets him lead her into the room that's become their only refuge.</p><p> </p><p>********</p><p> </p><p>Carol can barely walk. Her feet are cut to shreds from running barefoot across the frozen winter ground. She's incredibly sore from being assaulted and violently grabbed by the crotch.</p><p> </p><p>There's a kettle of hot water over the fire and Daryl pours it all into a bucket, then refills the kettle and hangs it back over the flames. He mixes cold water into the bucket until it's a bearable temperature and leads Carol into the bathroom. She's absolutely covered in blood -- hers and the blood of the men she killed -- and at Daryl's patient coaxing and insistence, she steps into and stands numbly in the tub while he takes the blanket from her, then slowly dips water from the bucket with a bowl and pours it slowly over her head in a warm, cleansing rinse, a bowl at a time.</p><p> </p><p>Carol motivates herself to wipe and scrub the mess from her skin with her hands as the water runs down her skin, and to spare Daryl from having to do it for her. The single bucket full is enough to sluice all the blood and dirt from her hair and body. It's freezing in the bathroom, her nipples are practically hard enough from the chill to stab him with and she's armored with goosebumps. She wonder what his thoughts are on the sight of her whole, bare self for the first time like <em>this</em>. It's certainly not the stuff of their fantasies, and it might break her heart, except she's too worn out to care. She fights herself not to wince or cry out when the water hits the raw places between her legs.</p><p> </p><p>"You said you couldn't wait to see me in my natural glory," she murmurs regretfully. "Still feel the same?"</p><p> </p><p>"Hell yeah, I do. You're every bit as beautiful as I knew you'd be. I feel bad about...looking. Under the circumstances. Don't seem appropriate. Tryin' not to." He raises the bucket and slowly pours the remainder over her. After the hot water's gone, Carol pushes as much off her skin as she can, using her hands like squeegees, and Daryl passes her a large, fluffy towel for her hair and has another one ready. He sets her pajamas on the toilet lid and makes his exit so she can dress in privacy and he might possibly need a break, too. She's noticed from his physical response that he wasn't lying about enjoying the view. She wonders what kind of conflict that is for him, still wanting her when he likely believes someone else just took her against her will.</p><p> </p><p>Carol puts on her pajamas, and then wraps in the comforter again, bloody side out. She opens the bathroom door, then stands in the doorway as if she's not sure what to do. Daryl is stirring up the fire, and he immediately straightens and goes to her. He leads her carefully to the armchair by the fire, urging her to sit. He's hobbling, she can tell his leg is really hurting him, and she makes a noise in her throat and tries to get up.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, hey," he soothes, "it's all right, you don't gotta go nowhere. Just stay."</p><p> </p><p>She's wilting with embarrassment, but he'll know everything about her eventually anyway. "I don't want to bleed all over my pajamas and the comforter."</p><p> </p><p>"Don't worry 'bout it, its just a thing," he says. "I'll find you a towel. Gimme a sec."He find a hand towel in the stack nearby and turns discreetly away while Carol unfolds it and wipes off what she can, then refolds the towel and places it inside her pajama bottoms between her bottom and the comforter. She sits back down, wrapping up as if the tighter she holds the comforter the better she'll hold herself together. He hasn't asked whether they raped her and why would he, but why else would her thighs be smeared with blood? </p><p> </p><p>Daryl brings her the sleeping bag and wraps her in that also, and she'd feel as cozy and snug as a little baby swaddled and warm in front of the fire if it wasn't for the lightning bolts of pain shooting through her body. That, and the hideous burning between her legs and the fact that she can't stop shivering. Even though she's no longer cold.</p><p> </p><p>He's put another towel on the floor in front of her so she has a clean place to set her shredded feet. She watches him wordlessly as he pours more hot water from the kettle into a bowl and adds cold until its the right temperature, then settles himself stiffly onto the bare floor and gently, but thoroughly, bathes her torn feet. He's careful and he takes his time. At some point Carol begins to cry silently and a couple tears spill down to hit the back of his head as he's bent over her foot. He glances up, pauses in his ministrations to wipe the tears from her cheeks with his thumb and briefly cup the side of her face with a warm palm. All she sees in his eyes is relief and gladness they're together and still here.</p><p> </p><p>Neither of them has said much since he approached her with the comforter out in the field. Carol imagines how she appeared, a naked, steaming apparition in the moonlight. How shocking it must be for him to see her that way, criss-crossed with scars from stem to stern like an old alligator, her silver hair loose and wild. Blood all over her body and upper thighs, gleaming black in the moonlight. She knows she emanated savagery and madness in the moments after finishing Hy.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl pats her feet gently with a towel to dry, then urges her to bring a leg up and cross it over her knee so he can examine her foot for thorns or other foreign objects. She sticks her leg out of the comforter to the knee and does as he asks. The batteries in his flashlight have been exhausted for days and he brings a candle closer to use as a light, careful not to drip melted wax on her skin. He pulls a sliver and several thorns from the sole of her foot. He's so gentle she barely feels it. She knows she's got to be in shock so she's probably numb from that, too.</p><p> </p><p>When he's satisfied he's gotten them all, Daryl wraps her foot in the same boiled linen strips she'd used to wrap his leg. He gets up clumsily and finds a pair of the fuzzy socks she's been wearing and slips one over her freshly bandaged foot. He pulls one of the loose sofa cushions closer and sits on it instead of the hard floor, on her opposite side, then repeats the same process with her other foot. When he's finished, he tucks the comforter around her legs and feet, takes the dirty water and stumbles away to pour it into the bucket they keep in the bathroom for flushing.</p><p> </p><p>When he returns, her shoulders are shaking. Daryl kneels next to the chair, andit's clear he has no idea what to do but desperately wants to help or comfort her. He seems unsure whether she wants to be touched, or maybe he's not interested in touching her anymore, now that he thinks she was ravaged by the marauders and is probably spoiled.</p><p> </p><p>"Stop it," she says to herself out loud.</p><p> </p><p>He struggles to his feet again and she instantly understands he thinks she was talking to him. She clutches desperately at his wrist as he rises. "Not you. Talking to myself. Please don't leave me."</p><p> </p><p>He grips the arm of the chair and leans on it. "I dunno I can get up again if I sit back down on the floor," he confesses. "Just gonna stand right here." He pats the back of her hand with his free one. "Ain't goin' anywhere."</p><p> </p><p>That he <em>still</em> hasn't asked and is basically just being here for her speaks volumes about his character, but of course she's known who he is all along.</p><p> </p><p>"They didn't rape me," Carol assures him. "The blood is from when I tried to run, and one of them grabbed me by the crotch. He pulled a bunch of hair out and I bled. That's all. That's why I yelled when I did."</p><p> </p><p>He's still a moment. Then, "You want a wash cloth and some warm water and a candle? Maybe go back in the bathroom and... and make sure you're not hurt worse than you think?"</p><p> </p><p>"That's actually a really good idea," Carol agrees. He gathers and provides the necessary items while she makes her slow way to the bathroom. They are both so crippled at this point it's a toss-up as to whose legs are going to fail them first.</p><p> </p><p>In the bathroom, Carol carefully daubs at her crotch with a warm washcloth by candle light and surveys the damage with a hand mirror. She's got patches of raw, weeping flesh where wads of hair were yanked out and she's just happy they're not at that stage in their relationship yet where she'd have to let him take a look.</p><p> </p><p>The sensitive skin between her thighs is bruised red and purple. She gags a little looking at it in a mirror, but she's relatively certain she'll eventually heal and be okay. It's not like she got tusked by a wild boar. The most upsetting thing of all to her in the moment is how this is going to set back their future date. She's going to become a scabby horror show down there for a few days and that's not the image she wants to burn into his brain. He's already gotten an eyeful of her bloody, naked badness and it's going to have to last him a while. <span class="Apple-converted-space">The bleeding's stopped, so she discards the towel, dropping it into the tub. She wraps up in the comforter again and takes the candle back with her into the main.</span></p><p> </p><p>For the first time in a long time she wishes she had a pair of underwear, but the pajamas are fine as long as she remembers to be careful sliding around in them while seated. Instead of returning to the armchair, she climbs into bed. Daryl follows suit, and they lay facing each other, neither of them sure what to say or do.</p><p> </p><p>"You were right about the perimeter," she admits. "They were watching long enough they thought I was here alone. The fox tried to tell me, too. I've never had a pet or lived with an animal, so I didn't know. I just wasn't listening."</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, you get like that, sometimes," he agrees. Then he frowns. "That fox. The same fox we saw on the porch?"</p><p> </p><p>"The very one. Spotted it out in the yard when I went for wood, and once when I was hunting. It knew there was something out there. I just didn't understand what it meant at the time. My god, Daryl, will this ever end? I just want us to be able to go home."</p><p> </p><p>"Well, we can't go tomorrow like we'd planned," he says. "You're hurt too bad to ride that far and I'm not so sure about this leg."</p><p> </p><p>"We can't stay here!" she exclaims, sitting up and beginning to panic. "We need to get out of here before something else happens. Those men could have been from a larger group -- "</p><p> </p><p>"They weren't. They'd been on the road a good while. Probably got kicked out of a community." He sits up and reaches for her in uncertainty, not sure of the reception he's going to get, but she permits herself to be pulled into his side and held close and she even melts into him a little bit. "You gonna be okay?" he asks gently.</p><p> </p><p>"Eventually. Yeah. Just more scars, what the heck, I only have a million of those already." She shifts a little to settle closer against him. She doesn't want to think about what things might look like downstairs after her injuries heal.</p><p> </p><p>"Tell me," he urges, feeling her body tense.</p><p> </p><p>She lets out a noise that's a cross between a sniffle and a snort. "My pussy might be deformed, now. If it scars and the hair doesn't grow back."</p><p> </p><p>"Though we already had the talk about scars? You know where I stand with that."</p><p> </p><p>"Sure, but it's easy to say that when you haven't seen anything. And a scar on my leg, or my torso, is different than one on my -- "</p><p> </p><p>"Carol. I gotta kiss you to prove I don't care about that shit? Or to shut you up?"</p><p> </p><p>"That's one of the boundaries," she says quickly, looking up at him. "You want to break a boundary? While we're in <em>bed?"</em> As if it matters, with the shape she's in.</p><p> </p><p>"If that's what it takes to make you stop shittin' on yourself -- "</p><p> </p><p>"Oh my god, would you stop saying <em>those words?" </em>she groans, exasperated. "Whatever. And no, you don't have to kiss me, I'll just shut up." And she does.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*******</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Resurrection</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They barely sleep, if they sleep at all. They lie there, listening for any little noise, nerves frazzled and their bodies on alert. Carol's in a lot of pain from her injuries and there's no position she can find to lie in that offers respite. Between her feet and her crotch, it's a long, sore night. Daryl isn't faring that much better. The trek out to the grove and back did his leg in, and both of them toss and turn for hours until dawn finally lightens the window between the boards.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl insists on tending to the fire. There's a big stack of wood in the room that Carol managed to bring in before the shit hit the fan, and it's not like anyone needs to load the wheelbarrow. She gives in without a fight, watching from the bed while he stirs up the embers, adds more wood and puts the kettle on.</p><p> </p><p>"Can we leave today?" she asks, almost plaintively.</p><p> </p><p>"Not today." He stands and brushes off his pants. "Maybe tomorrow, or the next day."</p><p> </p><p>"That's too long. For all we know, dragons will fly in to eat us." She's only half kidding. It's practically the only thing that hasn't come to pass. "Dragons... or some portal to Hell will open and suck us into the void. Who knows? I don't want to stick around long enough to find out."</p><p> </p><p><em>"Carol</em>. We can't leave today."</p><p> </p><p>"We're out of food."</p><p> </p><p>"There's enough left to get us through tomorrow, if we ration it."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, god. Daryl. I can't fight anyone or anything else," she moans. "I don't have it left in me."</p><p> </p><p>"Stop. We're gonna be okay." He returns to the bed and sits on the edge, reaching for her hand. "Another day or two and we're outta here. It's gonna be fine. Got all our weapons and we're keepin' em close. Took weeks for that one party to stumble on us, and you know nobody else has been here in all the years since the Turn." He releases her hand and pats the back of it reassuringly. "We'll be gone before the bodies start to smell."</p><p> </p><p>"We're leaving them inside?" she asks, aghast.</p><p> </p><p>"You want me to drag 'em out to chum the walkers with? What? Our night of the living dead with all them fresh pig corpses out front wasn't enough to convince you that's a bad fuckin' idea?"</p><p> </p><p>She makes a face at him. "Funny. No, you're probably right. We need to get out of here, though. As soon as possible."</p><p> </p><p>"Haven't even tried to start the bike," he says cautiously. "You can't sit for that distance with your... injury. Not for another day or two. And my leg... it was a lot better before it took that hammer handle."</p><p> </p><p>She knows he's right, of course, but it doesn't make her anxiety any less. She spends a miserable day hobbling around, nervously going through and repacking her gear and, despite Daryl's strident protests, brings in a couple wheelbarrows full of wood. They compromise, Daryl helps haul armloads in at the door, but she won't let him carry any up the steps and when his limp gets visibly more pronounced, she prohibits him from carrying any more at all.</p><p> </p><p>She works up a little sweat bringing in the wood and it makes the raw skin of her wounds sting and burn, but it's not as bad as it was the day before, and she knows it will be better tomorrow. She spots the fox as she's coming back on the second trip. It's at the edge of the field and not trying to show her anything today. It sits on it's butt on the frosty ground and watches her push the wheelbarrow across the driveway.</p><p> </p><p>"You again," Carol says. "Sorry, got nothing for you today. We're tapped out." The fox regards her with calm eyes and lazily flicks an ear. It's attitude gives her confidence there's nothing amiss in their world right now.</p><p> </p><p>They eat half rations and force themselves to choke down more of the dreaded ancient stale scout crackers, which they'd hoped to shun for the remainder, but calories are scarce. They're so sick of the rice it's not much of a loss when it's all gone. They debate the wisdom of leaving in the morning for about five minutes until Daryl shoots it down.</p><p> </p><p>"You need at least another day with your... uh... " he points hesitantly between her legs. "Can't ride like that, yet."</p><p> </p><p>"I can handle it," Carol insists, setting the majority of her crackers aside uneaten. She shocks herself by turning it up a little and slipping into one of her defensive roles out of instinct.<em> "Please?"</em></p><p> </p><p>There's surprise in his face, but he's not buying her ploy. "Never took you for a beggar. Don't start now. Kinda fucks with my image of you."</p><p> </p><p>"Fuck <em>you," </em>she shoots back with a scowl, feeling called out.</p><p> </p><p>"Hmm. Okay. If you want." He settle back in his seat and waits. "Seems like it'd be painful for you now, though... and there ain't no one else here for me to fuck."</p><p> </p><p>Carol can't help herself and she's unable to stay angry, even though she really wants to be pissed at him, right now. A chuckle escapes her. "You're an asshole."</p><p> </p><p>"Look who's talkin.'" They're sitting on the bed with their rations spread out across the surface like a shitty little wannabe picnic lunch. Daryl reaches across the mattress to take her hand. "I wanna leave, too. Believe me. Day after tomorrow for sure, OK? Your wound should be, uh, dry by then."</p><p> </p><p>"How would you know that?" she asks.</p><p> </p><p>"Like a road rash, right? Top layer of skin, tore off just far enough down to bleed? I fell off the bike a time or two. Sorta the same, but in a different location." He forces himself to eat a couple more of the crackers. "Takes about two, three days for that kind of a wound to scab over."</p><p> </p><p>"Nice," Carol manages. She's a little startled to be embarrassed that Daryl has obviously spent some time thinking about the minute details of her injury.</p><p> </p><p>"Don't let it make things weird," he says quickly. "We're together now, right? Even though we ain't... <em>together</em> together. Yet." They exchange shy smiles. "So we can talk about stuff. About anything, right?"</p><p> </p><p>"Anything?" she asks, perking up and showing interest.</p><p> </p><p>She can tell he sees the shift in her eyes and he seems to want to backtrack, but continues moving forward. "Sure. Anything."</p><p> </p><p>She tangles her fingers with his for a minute, then looks at him with a mischievous gleam in her eye. "How many people have you had sex with?"</p><p> </p><p>Daryl raises his eyebrows. It's clear he wasn't expecting the question, but he's also not unprepared to answer it and he's not even blushing, which both surprises and intrigues her. "Ain't been with a man. Not my thing."</p><p> </p><p>"Um. Well. Okay."</p><p> </p><p>"I ain't offended, if that's what you're thinking. Got nothin' against gay people. Can't always tell right off who's which way. Not like I even declared a preference till recently." He isn't answering the question though, and he's suddenly pretending to study his fingernails when she can almost hear the gears in his head churning.</p><p> </p><p>"So...?" she coaxes.</p><p> </p><p>"So, what?" He's still not looking up.</p><p> </p><p>"How many?"</p><p> </p><p>"Oh. Hmm. Sure you really wanna know?"</p><p> </p><p>"Of course I want to know, Pookie, " she huffs. "Why else would I ask?"</p><p> </p><p>"Just... things might be different, once you know. You might not feel the same way about it, or about me." He's meeting her eyes, finally, and his are strangely unreadable.</p><p> </p><p>"Try me," she says.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl shrugs and glances away for an instant. "Maybe... forty?"</p><p> </p><p>Carol's eye go wide and her jaw drops in shock. She gapes at him wordlessly, opening and closing her mouth several times, like a fish. Daryl busts into an uncharacteristically wide grin that shows his teeth and it's then she sees the equally uncharacteristic sparkle of mischief in his blue eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"Nah, I'm just shittin' ya," he says, laughing in that quiet way he has. "The look on your face was worth it. One hundred percent."</p><p> </p><p><em>"Daryl Dixon</em>. Did you just play a joke on me?"</p><p> </p><p>"I did. I think I did just that."</p><p> </p><p>They both sit there grinning so hard it makes their cheeks ache. Carol thinks it really was clever of him and completely unexpected. His delight at catching her off guard is evident, but he's also managed to avoid the question again. She doesn't press him right away, and takes the time to enjoy their smile fest, which actually takes quite a while to wind down. Carol feels lighter afterward, as if she's been carrying a weight she was previously unaware of and suddenly got to let it go and leave it behind. Daryl's looking down at his wrist and picking at his right sleeve. She knows he hasn't forgotten, and she knows he knows she hasn't either.</p><p> </p><p>"Never have," he admits at last, abandoning his sleeve to trace the tattoo on the back of his hand. "Never have, never did, and then one day you're too old to say you never did, 'cause <em>that</em> makes it weird... and then the Turn. Shit happens." He lets out a snort. "Or it don't. Didn't want anyone touchin' me anyway. Then I met <em>you." </em>He raises his eyes to hers, and he only looks hopeful and even optimistic. "So there it is. If a redneck, middle-aged virgin ain't the showcase you're lookin' for and you wanna bid on 'nother one instead, I get it."</p><p> </p><p>She's shocked in a different way now. Daryl is usually painfully honest from the get-go. He's only lied to her a couple times ever, and then it was to protect her and not the other way around. "You said you'd been laid."</p><p> </p><p>He sighs regretfully. "Yeah, I lied. Sorry. Ain't lyin' now, though."</p><p> </p><p>Carol's trying hard not to kiss him. It's maybe not the right response, not yet, and besides, they've got boundaries in this haunted house. They've just about decided if they fool around here they'll die here, like every horny couple in every slasher film back before the Turn. She considers what it means that she's going to be his first in so many different ways and she experiences such a surge of anxiety she nearly starts to hyperventilate. She can see in his eyes he's beginning to doubt her interest, though, and she has to nip that shit in the bud.</p><p> </p><p>"I was looking forward to wrecking you before, Pookie," she says lightly, "but now I'm <em>really</em> looking forward to wrecking you. You don't stand a chance." She gives him a little smile and runs the tip of her tongue across her lower lip.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl blushes and ducks, smiling. "Stahp."</p><p> </p><p>Carol's smile widens, then she shakes her head in bemusement. "I can't believe Merle never got you laid."</p><p> </p><p>"Wasn't for lack of tryin.' He decided I's gay, said he couldn't handle havin' a fag for a brother, so he just pretended it wasn't a thing and stopped botherin' me about it." Daryl chews on the inside of his cheek a moment and shakes his head. "Funny he thought I'd suck a dick but never suspected mine ain't never been held by anyone 'cept me. Hmph." He reaches into his pocket for the cigarette pouch. "Last one. Wanna share?"</p><p> </p><p>"Hell, yeah. Spark that puppy up."</p><p> </p><p>"Way you said that you'd think we was burnin' a doobie."</p><p> </p><p>"That would have been fun, back in the day. Might be fun right now."</p><p> </p><p>"You offerin'?"</p><p> </p><p>"I wish," Carol said, accepting the cigarette from him and inhaling a long draw. She inhales with pleasure, savoring the rare treat of a cigarette not surrounded by a cloud of anxiety. "I used to smoke a lot of pot, back when Ed first started hitting me. I should have done meth or coke instead, and just cut his ass." She takes another puff and passes the cigarette back.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl takes a drag, smiling and shaking his head. "My girlfriend, the badass," he says. "That fucker's lucky you weren't a badass then, and so were we. He'd of been dead sooner and good riddance, but you'd'a gone to prison for cuttin' his ass, and then we'd'a never met." He pauses, reconsidering. "Sucks he beat up on you. If the walkers hadn't a' killed him, I would've eventually. Or I would'a happily held him down while <em>you</em> did it."</p><p> </p><p>Carol sighs. "That is <em>so</em> romantic," she breathes, shifting her position like she does every five minutes because there is no comfortable position with her affliction. She knows Daryl's been drowning in guilt over taking all the pain meds, even though they were all gone literally weeks ago.</p><p> </p><p>"It's not your fault, Daryl. You needed them."</p><p> </p><p>"I didn't have to hog 'em all, and you could sure use some now. Can't hardly sit still it's botherin' you so much. You ain't sleepin,' neither."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm not sleeping because I'm scared shitless of what the hell's gonna show up here next. It's not just the pain."</p><p> </p><p>They manage to struggle through another night, nervous as a couple of lambs alone in the heart of coyote country, both their stomachs rumbling because they're getting hungry for real. Except for the occasional owl and the crackle of the flames in the fireplace, it's so quiet most nights it gets eerie. Neither of them have gone this long without hearing the growls of the dead since before the Turn. The cold of deep winter seems eternal and the windows are painted in thick frost in the morning.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>Carol wakes up knowing today's the day. She's snuggled up to Daryl with her head resting on his shoulder. She took her hair down just before going to sleep last night and it's loose and spilling over his arm that's wrapped around her shoulders. She has her left arm around his waist and her left leg hooked around his at the knee. It's extremely close to a compromising position and she feels like she should move away and off him a little, but it's freezing outside and he's like a blast furnace of body heat. Part of her wants to just bury herself against him forever. Doesn't matter where they are or what's going on or what they're up against, as long as they're together they'll find a way to deal with it. Whatever or whoever it is. She nuzzles into him like she'll never get enough, and she won't. It's not physically possible.</p><p> </p><p>"Mornin," he murmurs, tightening his arm around her a little. "Can already feel the wheels in your brain turnin,' just... gimme a few minutes to wake up, a'right?" He sinks back with a tiny groan. "Lemme achieve full consciousness first?'</p><p> </p><p>"I can help you achieve something else -- "</p><p> </p><p>"Stop. Oh my god. You need it bad, don't'cha? How long before your... <em>patch</em>... is, uh, patched up? Jesus," he mutters, scrubbing his free hand over his face in embarrassment. "Gonna be lettin' you put your money where your damn --fuck, never mind -- " Carol has to sit up now, just so she can watch him changing colors because it's adorable when he does this and she wouldn't miss it for the world.</p><p> </p><p>"Maybe two weeks," she suggests. "Give or take a day or two. There are things I can still do for <em>you</em>, though... " In spite of her physical pain, her entire body bloomswith a sudden hunger of a different kind than what kept them up all night.</p><p> </p><p>"Not yet," he says, not quite recoiling, but adamant. "I mean, yeah, that'd be fun later, but not... not... "</p><p> </p><p>She gets what he's trying to say and spares him. "No, I get it. Not here. You're right." It's going to be days, but that's <em>all</em>. She's on a mission now, and she'll corner and seduce him at some point in the near future if she has to. She's almost as terrified of real intimacy as he is but somebody needs to make the first move and she can't expect him to crucify himself that way, especially now she knows he's inexperienced. When the time comes, she's going to wreck him so fast he won't know what hit him. She lays down again and snuffs a little chuckle against Daryl's pajama shirt.</p><p> </p><p>He draws his head back and eyes her suspiciously. "What's so funny?"</p><p> </p><p>When she doesn't reply, he asks, "You thinkin' of our future date? You are, aren't you?"</p><p> </p><p>Busted, Carol puts a hand over her face. Her wide smile gives her away. "Guilty as charged, Your Honor."</p><p> </p><p>He settles back again and sighs. "We got a few more days to obsess over it in our heads. We'll prob'ly both be dead or crazy by then. Feels like the gods ain't gonna let it happen."</p><p> </p><p>"I swear I won't let you die a virgin, Pookie," she promises.</p><p> </p><p>He snorts. "That's comforting."</p><p> </p><p>"It should be. I'd feel comforted if I were you."</p><p> </p><p>"Said I was."</p><p> </p><p>"You snorted when you said it."</p><p> </p><p>"Had somethin' in my throat."</p><p> </p><p>"Sure. I'll take that." Carol knows they need to get up soon, but it's warm and cozy in the bed, and this is the last time they're going to wake up in it, alone, in this place. Tonight they'll be back in the brownstone and surrounded by an entire community and a houseful of people. Noise, activity and lights. It will be a shock to their systems, at first. She wonders how it was for Daryl, coming back to society after all those years living alone by the river. "You worried about going back?"</p><p> </p><p>"Nah." He doesn't ask whether she is, and she knows why not.</p><p> </p><p>"Maybe, one day, we can take some time away just for us," she suggests. "Not by accident. On purpose. A road trip."</p><p> </p><p>"We should. New Mexico's still out there."</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah. It is. Maybe someday. We have -- "</p><p> </p><p>" -- things to do here first, I know," he interrupts. "Like loading up and leaving. Right now. Sound good?"</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>It's short work for them to get their stuff together and pack up their weapons and pull the bike out of the shed, where it's weathered the better part of a winter that's been colder than usual. They put the saddlebags on and strap on their packs and the items they acquired worth dragging clear back to Alexandria -- most of them small, but useful items Daryl discovered on his "treasure hunts," smaller volume things like the whetstone. And a whole bottle of benzodiazepines that Carol could have used a dozen times and completely forgot she had possession of. Which was probably for the best. The way things have gone, she's be addicted by now.</p><p> </p><p>The tires on the bike are a little lower than Daryl prefers, but they're just going to have to chance it. They've both lost a lot of weight during their ordeal and maybe that will compensate for some of the difference. They're bringing back some heavy carpentry tools and they decide to leave the axe and hatchet and bring all the hammers, since no one they know of is making new hammer heads and there are axes everywhere in the communities. They push the bike around and get it positioned to leave and when they both glance up, the fox is sitting smack in the middle of the driveway, maybe thirty feet away.</p><p> </p><p>They look at the fox, and the fox looks at them. They both take an involuntary step back.</p><p> </p><p>"We're, uh, we're just leavin' now," Daryl tells it, speaking so politely Carol suspects he'd tip his hat if he was wearing one. "See you around." He almost bumps into her as he's backing away. She grabs him by the hips to prevent him mowing her down. The hair's standing up on the backs of her arms and her neck. They make their nervous way around the bike and Daryl climbs aboard and painfully toes out the kickstarter.</p><p> </p><p>"No, wait," Carol says, and she puts a hand on his shoulder and one on the seat of the bike and tries starting it herself. She gives it a good effort but the bottoms of her feet are torn up, after all, and after six or seven increasingly pathetic attempts she nearly tumbles over, and he shakes his head. "Nah, c'mon. Let me."</p><p> </p><p>"Your leg," she whimpers, dancing back and forth on her sore feet. She looks like a little girl who needs to use the bathroom, and Daryl smirks fondly before winding himself up and jumping down on the lever with a wince. The bike chatters and sputters and stops.</p><p> </p><p>The fox vanishes. Carol doesn't even see it drift into the grass or the forest or wherever the hell it goes when it's not watching. It's just gone.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl tries again and the bike roars into life. It shatters the silence and takes Carol back to the day they rode in here, just looking for things to scavenge and planning to be home in time for supper. It feels like a thousand years ago, and she's a little edgy about returning to the collective that is the Alexandria Safe Zone. She doesn't have many friends there, and the majority of Oceansiders hate her guts. She's not certain how Maggie feels but she has a good idea of it, although the fact that Maggie hasn't immediately condemned her for releasing Negan speaks volumes about the woman's regard for her. Carol doesn't know whether she could have done the same.</p><p> </p><p>"Hey," he shouts over the engine. "Gonna let 'er warm up a bit first."</p><p> </p><p>"Can't be soon enough," she shouts back. "Are we going to stay long enough to call in every walker in the county with this thing? Or only half of them?"</p><p> </p><p>He rolls his eyes. "Bike needs to make it back to Alexandria," he says. "Been sittin' in the cold the better part of two months."</p><p> </p><p>She can tell her words make him nervous because he's looking around them now and probably remembering there's only one official way in and out of here.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay," he says finally, "Get on and hang on." Carol doesn't need to be asked twice. She clambers onto the back and the vibrating seat where she's bearing most of her weight doesn't hurt right now but she can tell it's going to be uncomfortable long before they reach their destination. They're both wearing winter coats and gloves found in the house and they're grateful for the extra protection on the long, cold ride home.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl turns back to check that she's seated, then he looks at the house with disdain. Carol surveys the scene and thinks of the mess they're leaving behind; seven wild boars, a bear, and a broken window, five dead guys and however many walkers she's taken out. They're also leaving behind their prior oblivion to what they mean to each other, and they're the last ones standing. Again. They raise their middle fingers to the house in unison.</p><p> </p><p>"Fuck this place," Daryl says. "Let's get outta here."</p><p> </p><p>Just before they roar down the driveway and forever from the wreckage of this strange, sad memoir of a bygone era, Carol glimpses the fox for the last time. It's sitting next to a corner of the barn, observing their departure. She half expects it to metamorphose into a wisp of smoke and vanish into thin air as they're leaving, but it doesn't. She turns her head and watches the fox watching them until they travel around a corner and out of sight.</p><p> </p><p>********</p><p> </p><p>The ride back to Alexandria is largely uneventful and they're both extremely grateful for this. Daryl is overly cautious and drives much slower than he would if the roads weren't slick with frost. If they topple over, even in a minor accident, it could mean big trouble. Neither of them can handle a new injury, and they might not survive a night or two out on the open road. They occasionally spot walkers and twice have to go around or through them. It's a shock to the system after weeks without the presence of the walking dead.</p><p> </p><p>Carol wraps her arms tight around Daryl's waist because she can touch him now, and she can't believe how good it makes her feel, even when her twat is already starting to burn from the ride like it's been doused in Tabasco. She doesn't have to pretend any more that she's just resting her head against his back because she's tired, or that she doesn't enjoy holding on to him, or that she doesn't appreciate clasping his hips between her thighs. If it wasn't for the increasingly annoying burn, she might even be grinding against him. The equivalent of a road rash strawberry on her pussy is certainly a distraction that interferes with her desire to enjoy randy thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>He pulls over at the halfway mark and Carol starts to panic. "Something wrong with the bike?"</p><p> </p><p>"Nah, bike's fine." He leaves it running, though. "You need to get off for a while?"</p><p> </p><p>She makes a face at him in the mirror and her eyes twinkle.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl turns red and facepalms. "Oh my god."</p><p> </p><p>Carol's laughing as she steps off the back of the bike. "I know what you meant. Yeah. Need to stand up for just a minute." She tugs at the fabric of her pants where they're sticking painfully to her wounds. She should have just left it alone, now the fabric's going to re-adhere itself and she'll have to pull it free of her raw flesh all over again. They've probably got halfway yet to go, but they'll be back soon and they'll be safe, or at least as safe as it's possible to be in this world.</p><p> </p><p>She wanders off behind a house to pee and returns in a hurry, tugging at her pants and followed by a sizable herd of hungry walkers. Carol leaps back onto the bike and they take off again. They stop once more because she still needs to pee, and sometimes they slow down to navigate around more walkers or the thick patches of frozen leaves in the road. "Like drivin' on wet snot," Daryl offers descriptively.</p><p> </p><p>As the walls of Alexandria come into view, Carol feels a mixed rush of relief, elation, apprehension and fear. They've made it back alive, but she still has so many ghosts and so much unfinished business here. She's surprised to see the gate's been pulled wide open and there's quite a crowd awaiting their arrival. They must have heard the bike coming for miles. It looks like half of Alexandria's gathered to greet them. Maybe more than that. Carol's anxiety wants to ramp up into a full blown panic.</p><p> </p><p>The crowd parts like the Red Sea to let them through, and Carol glimpses familiar faces; Maggie, Rosita, Aaron. She sees shock and amazement and surprise. Daryl pulls up just inside the gate and they both dismount the bike and Daryl gets mobbed right away, especially by Judith and R.J., who <em>throw</em> themselves at him so hard they nearly topple him off his feet. Aaron moves swiftly to intervene, and Daryl waves him away. He's got an arm around each of the kids and he looks around for Carol and she's standing on the other side of the bike, watching everybody flock to greet him. Nobody's come to Carol yet, although she's not getting any dirty looks, either. Her eyes meet Judith's, but there's a motorcycle and a throng of people separating them. She doesn't see Negan in the crowd.</p><p> </p><p>Then Maggie is at her side, easing an arm around her shoulders and guiding her away from the crowd, around to the infirmary. "Carol, thank God you two are alive. You're limping. Let's get that looked at."</p><p> </p><p>"I cut my feet up a little." Its crazy how her whole body's screaming red alert now that she's theoretically safe and sound. All she really wants to do is to get these sticky pants off and nurse the wounds she's not telling anyone about. And to eat something, anything that's not ancient stale scout crackers or rice. "I'm really just... tired. So is Daryl."</p><p> </p><p>She looks longingly toward the gate where he's still enveloped by his fans. Daryl gets a lot of love from this community. He deserves it, and he's earned every bit. Carol's got their ire, and she know she's earned every bit of that, too.</p><p> </p><p>"Carol. Hey." It's Maggie, trying to get her attention. She's managed to walk her up the steps and into the infirmary where two of Alexandria's newest residents and both registered nurses before the Turn have set up shop. They're kind, and thorough. Carol gives them the bottle of benzos she's been packing on her since day one, and they put them in the "pharmacy." They examine her feet, apply some medicinal ointment, and wrap them in actual bandages. When they're finished, she puts her fuzzy socks on and steps back into her boots. One of the nurses looks curiously at her a couple of times and Carol's sure they've figured out there's something else bothering her she's not talking about. To their growing credit, the nurse doesn't remark on it or ask about it, just meets Carol's eyes in a way that conveys she knows she can ask for additional help if she needs it later. Carol nods, grateful for their discretion.</p><p> </p><p>"The cuts on your feet aren't infected," the other says. "Just keep them clean and wrapped until the cuts scab over. You can shower, just dry them right after, and don't soak in a tub for a few days."</p><p> </p><p>Aaron and several others bring Daryl into the infirmary, and Carol's grateful to see he's not resisting in any way. He hates to be pushed and poked and prodded. Someone who knows what they're doing needs to check out his leg, and these nurses seem to know their shit well enough. Her eyes meet his across the room and he looks as numb and exhausted as Carol feels. She wants nothing more than to just eat some actual food and then go to bed and sleep for a year. After she takes a hot shower and puts on clean pajamas.</p><p> </p><p>They exchange a nod, and then Daryl's got the full attention of the nurses and Carol's not so sure she wants to hang around and hear their thoughts on her seamstressing skills. She lets Maggie lead her out the door and away back to the brownstone <em>finally</em>. It's a place she never thought she'd miss or see ever again, and she's startled by the surge of emotion that rises in her when she ascends the steps and crosses the threshold into the entry.</p><p> </p><p>"Can I get you something to eat?" Maggie asks.</p><p> </p><p>Carol's already salivating. "God, yes. Please. We were beginning to starve, out there."</p><p> </p><p>"Both of you've lost weight, noticed that right off." Maggie's making a sandwich with sliced dill pickles and peanut butter on bread and Carol devours it almost as soon as the other woman sets the plate in front of her. The bread's a little dry and she nearly chokes herself wolfing down the first few bites. Maggie hands her a glass of apple juice.</p><p> </p><p>"The Council's convening in an hour," Maggie says. "I know you're both tired and injured, but it's a necessary formality."</p><p> </p><p>"Sure, no, I get it. We'll tell them anything they want to know." Well, almost anything. In this case, what they don't know definitely won't hurt them, and it might give them nightmares or complexes if they did. She's wondering where Daryl is. Are they still swarming him at the infirmary? What are they saying about his leg? Did she ruin it? Does he still want to be with her, now that they're back? Why does she always feel compelled to frantically circle the nearest abyss?</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>The Council house is packed so Carol knows they won't receive <em>all</em> of the questions the Council has for them today. They've got her and Daryl on opposite sides of the room and it's annoying. She feels like she's having withdrawals, not being next to him. It's an unfamiliar sensation, and she's not sure how to process it. It makes her anxious, and at the same time, fills her with warmth. He's like her missing puzzle piece. They'll fit themselves together again just as soon as they can sneak away from this crowd.</p><p> </p><p>All they're asked is whether they saw anyone else on the road, what condition the roads were in, and how concentrated the walkers are that far out. They'd seen no one else actually <em>on</em> the road and the fox's farm is a quarter mile from the nearest pavement, so neither of them mentions the marauders. Carol's surprised no one asks what else obviously happened, since they're both injured, walking like they're in pain, and look like they've been starved and had the living shit beat out of them. The Council lets them go surprisingly soon and they're each funneled off again by their own little entourage. Carol turns as she's being whisked out the east side door just in time to catch Daryl's glance back at her as he's escorted to the west.</p><p> </p><p>Carol knows there are people who want to spend time with Daryl and not with her, so she doesn't go looking for him right away. As soon as she can slip her handlers she returns alone to the brownstone, because it's quiet with nobody there, and the chatter and noise of all these other humans is fraying her nerves already.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn't go to her room because it's likely not her room anymore. They've been gone the better part of two months and it's obvious no one expected them to still be alive. She slips into the bathroom first thing, and attends to her wounds the best she can. There's gauze in the cabinet, and she's careful about placement because there's no tape and she can't use it even if there were, she doesn't want a piece of gauze tumbling out the bottom of her pants leg at an inconvenient time.</p><p> </p><p>Afterward, she returns to the living room and sits on the couch in the empty house, bending over and hugging her knees. She stays there, like that, for a long time. She spent months in this living room without feeling it was exceptionally large, and now it seems enormous, even cavernous. Carol notices the fire in the wood stove's died down, so she gets up and refills it. Maggie and the kids show up as she's closing down the flue and brushing the wood dust off her pants.</p><p> </p><p>"Here you are," Maggie says brightly. "Home, sweet home." She casts a look around the room. "Last I saw Daryl he was gettin' dragged off by Aaron and Gracie."</p><p> </p><p>"He needs to get off that leg," Carol says, more sharply than she intends. She'll fight a bunch of armed attackers while she's naked but couldn't march her ass across the Council house to stand by her man? Ludicrous. Except maybe it's not. Maybe he's had a change of heart, now they've finally made it back. Maybe it was just because he thought they were going to die, and not because --</p><p> </p><p>"Carol? Are you listenin' to me?" Maggie's voice cuts through the murk of her spiral.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm sorry, what?" Carol murmurs.</p><p> </p><p>"Can I get you anything?"</p><p> </p><p>"No... except, maybe something else to eat?"</p><p> </p><p>Maggie brings her a cup of hot tea and some jerky and nuts. Carol consumes it all and then she sits numbly for at least an hour, but to their credit, no one bothers her, although Lydia comes by and sits nearby for a while and lets her know without specific wording that she's glad to have her back. Carol smiles and embraces her. Hugging someone other than Daryl after all this time is the strangest feeling.</p><p> </p><p>Carol wonders whether she's in some kind of shock. She feels so numb and disconnected from everything. Daryl was her touchstone, and she's just adrift without his presence nearby. He's probably getting so much positive attention and love right now and cringing through every last minute of it, because that's Daryl, too. If anybody deserves love, it's him. He could do a lot better for himself than a former fake queen whose self-centered lust for revenge nearly got three of their communities annihilated.</p><p> </p><p>The door bangs open and there he is, looking frazzled and wearing an expression almost like he's being chased. He keeps glancing behind him and down the street and quickly closes the door. He's dotting his right foot to the floor like it's on fire. He looks at Carol sitting on the couch and sees her looking at his leg, then at him. It's the first time they've had opportunity to interact since they arrived, and that was hours ago. Both of them draw in a long, shuddering breath. They're poised to go to each other, then Lydia's back and Carol fades into the couch again to give Daryl and his adopted daughter some space.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl cripples his way to a chair and Carol lets out a sigh of relief. She can only imagine how his leg's feeling now and her crotch isn't doing that much better. Maggie brings them fresh beverages and snacks and then Aaron drops in to talk with Daryl.</p><p> </p><p>It goes this way the rest of the afternoon and into early evening. Everyone comes to see Daryl. Carol's elated for him. He's gone from being the abused little boy who gets no love to the mature man who gets <em>all</em> the love, and she's happy for and proud of him. He's come a long way from the angry fellow who yelled at her in the barn and at his camp, and it's <em>Daryl</em> who's made the choices that made him turn into who he is. They've each traversed several lifetimes since then, but he's come out the better person. Carol's not sure what she's come out as. She suspects her own metamorphosis isn't complete... but she's getting close. She's going to burst the chrysalis any day, now.</p><p> </p><p>She looks up at him and he looks across at her, and they smile. They're both utterly exhausted. She wants to go to him, but they haven't addressed that shift in dimensions yet, and because they are who they are, neither is eager to bring it up and draw all the awkward attention that comes with it.</p><p> </p><p>"Y'all's rooms are ready any time," Maggie tells them later as everyone's preparing to turn in. She gestures up, then down the stairs like she's directing traffic. "Kids washed your bedding a couple weeks after you disappeared and they been keeping y'all's rooms like shrines. Refused to believe you were dead. Even a couple days ago, they still wouldn't budge. They were hoping and praying you'd come back and, well, you have, so their prayers were answered. It was the saddest thing for too long. They missed you both, so much."</p><p> </p><p>"We missed them, too," Daryl says. "Missed everyone."</p><p> </p><p>"We didn't see any other people for weeks," Carol volunteers.</p><p> </p><p>Maggie turns to her. "You saw <em>someone</em>, though...?"</p><p> </p><p>Carol remembers being in the Savior outpost with Maggie and how everything went down in there. The women, the kill floor, her own panic attack at the realization she was going to have to <em>take</em> lives again if she wanted to keep on living, after all. Maggie gets it. Still, she just can't get the words out. No one knows what else happened at the fox's farm except her and Daryl, and she wants it -- no, she <em>needs</em> it to stay that way. "Just some wildlife. And walkers."</p><p> </p><p>Maggie looks skeptical, but doesn't press.</p><p> </p><p>"It must seem so noisy here," Lydia's come in from outside and and is shucking off her coat. "It took me a long time to get used to anything loud -- that wasn't the horde, I mean."</p><p> </p><p>"It's good to hear our people again," Daryl says, and Carol is nodding agreement. They've been exchanging uneasy glances since Maggie told them their rooms are ready. They haven't announced or otherwise informed any of the others about the change in their relationship. A good opportunity hasn't presented itself and they aren't just blurting it out, because that's not their way. They're both painfully shy about it and reluctant to draw all that attention to themselves.</p><p> </p><p>At the fox's farm, when they wanted to touch or to hold each other, they just did it, but they're not at the fox's farm anymore. They're in Alexandria, where they've always been two people dancing around their mutual longing like it was a flame that might burn them to death if they stuck their fingers in it. Carol instinctively shields herself against revealing vulnerabilities or perceived weaknesses, and being in love with Daryl is the most vulnerable she's ever been. All her self-defense mechanisms are kicking into high gear and she's paralyzed.</p><p> </p><p>Carol eventually gets to her feet and makes her way upstairs to shower and change. Her room is exactly as she left it. It feels strange to have her own clothes to choose from again. When she comes back downstairs, Daryl's at the kitchen table and showing Maggie the approximate location of the fox's farm on a map.</p><p> </p><p>Carol draws a glass of water at the sink, drinks, and hesitates. She walks to the landing and stands there a moment with her hand on the bannister. She and Daryl exchange an indecipherable look.</p><p> </p><p>"Something wrong?" Maggie asks.</p><p> </p><p>"Huh-uh," Daryl says quickly, and Carol's shaking her head no.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, good night, then," Maggie says. She ascends the stairs to Michonne's old room where she's been staying since before they left.</p><p> </p><p>Carol considers the fact that the kids evidently didn't enshrine their mother's bedroom. Then she realizes maybe the fact that someone else moved into Michonne's space and displaced her things is why the children turned around and preserved <em>their</em> rooms when Daryl and Carol didn't return. She takes a moment to appreciate that someone other than Daryl missed her so much they tried to keep her memory alive.</p><p> </p><p>They're finally alone on the landing for a second, and here come Judith and R.J., who by this time are convinced they're superhuman, and can't idolize them enough. They take some time with the kids, then both children head off to bed. The couple exchange a final, longing glance. They both know if they embrace now, they won't be able to let go and they don't want to have to explain it tonight.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl turns away and limps downstairs and Carol ascends the staircase to her room and goes in and closes the door behind her, then sits numbly on the bed. The thought of sleeping alone after weeks of cozy, platonic bedsharing and cuddles with her best friend is horribly depressing. She clutches at the edge of the mattress and mentally attempts to calm herself down, but she's starting to spiral already. If Daryl felt the same way, he'd have said something. Wouldn't he?</p><p> </p><p>Her own bed in her own room in the brownstone, once the closest thing she had to a refuge, is cold and lonely and alien to her now. To her surprise, she's almost longing for the fox's farm. For several minutes she sits in a tense silence, listening to the faint sounds of doors closing, people talking and the quiet rustle of the community and the household settling down for the night. Carol hasn't even lit a candle, although there's several, and a lighter on the dresser. She sits alone in the dark.</p><p> </p><p>There's no telling how long she remains there, fully dressed. It's a while. She hears footfalls in the halland the toilet flushing, then shadows pass the door as the feet retreat and the other doors upstairs close, one after the other. The absence of the pop and crackle and flickering light of the fire is far more disrupting than anything else except the actual separation from Daryl. Why are they so damn shy and fucked up about it, anyway? It's not like there's anything wrong with it. The pressure is rapidly growing unbearable, and she finally stands up on her wounded feet in her socks and pads to the door to go and find him.</p><p> </p><p>She opens the door, exits, then closes it quietly behind her. She heads swiftly and silently down the stairs and sees Daryl on his way up from the basement looking as lost as she feels. They spot each other at the same moment and they meet at the bottom of the staircase. Carol stops a step above the landing so they're nearly the same height when they wrap their arms around one another and fall into a level hug, something unheard of outside of the bed they shared, which was far too dangerous a place to engage in full body embraces. After their long, arduous and at times bewildering day, this hug is absolutely everything. Weeks spent holding each other off and on all day, every day for weeks, has so imprinted them on each other that a few hours of separation has been a minor trauma.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you want to come up and sleep in my room?" She whispers into his ear. "I have an actual bed, and it's big enough for both of us." Now that's she's wrapped her arms around his neck she can't stop holding on to him.</p><p> </p><p>To her surprise, he sweeps an arm behind her knees and hoists her up in a bridal carry, but the second he begins ascending the stairs on his bad leg with her in his arms, they both realize its not a good idea. He takes acouple steps back and leans against the wall on his good leg instead, still carrying her, and they remain there a long minute. Daryl holds her close as she sinks into the warmth and comfort of everything he is to her, curling herself around him.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, he reluctantly sets her down. Carol thinks she glimpses Maggie, retreating quickly and silently to her room as Daryl's setting her back on her feet, but she's not certain. She takes his hand in hers and leads him up the stairs and into her room, closing the door behind them.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>They spend the night in Carol's bed and have a surprisingly difficult time falling asleep without the crackling fireplace in the space they've grown accustomed to. She still has the pajamas she grabbed for Daryl from the fox's farm, and she hands them to him and turns her back so he can change. What she wants is to gawk at his body, but it wouldn't be fair to spring that on him at the end of what's been an exhausting day.</p><p> </p><p>He's showered too, and both of them being fresh and clean smelling would be tantalizing if she weren't so tired. Once they finally crawl beneath the blankets, <em>he</em> wraps around <em>her</em> as the big spoon for a change, and they manage to drift off at last. They sleep in past noon while the rest of the household tiptoes throughout the morning in an effort not to disturb them.</p><p> </p><p>When Carol wakes in her own room and her own bed in Alexandria and rolls to her left to see Daryl lying next to her and gazing back at her in that soft, yet intense way he has, she feels like she's finally come full circle. She doesn't have to dream of him anymore because her dream's the reality now. This is the beach she's always hoped to wash up on and she wants to stay here in this bed next to him forever. There's no need to seek anything else beyond what she's got, and he's more than she ever dreamed she'd deserve.</p><p> </p><p>"Good morning, sunshine," he murmurs.</p><p> </p><p>"Good morning, Pookie. Did you sleep well?"</p><p> </p><p>"You mean knowin' we're here together safe and surrounded by walls and a whole community? Yeah, little bit," he confirms. "Feels like we slept for days."He stretches and the headboard clangs when his hand bumps into it. He gets a mischievous glint in his eye and slowly takes hold of a bar on the headboard and starts to rock it back and forth until the bed's giving off a rhythmic squeaking sound.</p><p> </p><p>"What are you doing?" Carol asks, laughing. "Stop. Everybody in the house is going to think -- "</p><p> </p><p>"Exactly," Daryl says. "Serves 'em right for separatin' us all damn day."</p><p> </p><p>Carol hesitates only a second before taking hold of a bar on the opposite end of the headboard and joining him, until they've got it sounding as if they're screwing the very bed itself into the floor. She lets out a bold, experimental moan, and they immediately dissolve into a helpless fit of juvenile giggles. At time like these, Carol wonders whether they've both gone a little off the deep end. Even if they have, its the best kind of crazy, and she'll wallow in it without shame as long as he's there with her.</p><p> </p><p>Carol stops shaking the bed and flings her side of the covers back. "I'm gonna pee my pants from laughing. Gotta get up." She'd changed into her own micro fleece pajamas before bed and the feeling of the soft fabric against her skin after the long, hot shower she had last night is luxuriously delicious. She makes her tired way to the bathroom across the hall and on the way back she passes Judith, who won't make eye contact and turnspink.</p><p> </p><p>"Way to go," Carol says, upon returning to the room. "I think we've traumatized our niece. Making visions of Uncle Daryl and Aunt Carol dance in her head that she's not ready to process."</p><p> </p><p>"Well I'm <em>more</em> than ready to let people know what's what," Daryl admits. "What about you?"</p><p> </p><p>She sits on the edge of the bed, then lies down again, curling up on her side to face him. "I'm thinking we should move this bed down to your room."</p><p> </p><p>"Instead of the couch?"</p><p> </p><p>"Hmm. Unless we can shove the couch against a wall or something. It's nice to have it but there may not be room for both." She reaches over and tucks a lock of his eternally unruly hair back and behind his ear. She wants to grab him by fistfuls of it and kiss him breathless. "We can have our future date tonight, if you want. I mean, it wouldn't be <em>the</em> future date yet, obviously, I still need a few days for that, but we could still screw around."</p><p> </p><p>"That what <em>you</em> want?"</p><p> </p><p>"Are we going to do this again?"</p><p> </p><p>"Do what?"</p><p> </p><p>"I'm nervous, too, if that helps."</p><p> </p><p>"You're experienced."</p><p> </p><p>Carol hesitates. "Ok, well, you <em>will</em> be."</p><p> </p><p>"Not what I mean."</p><p> </p><p>"Then what <em>do</em> you mean?"</p><p> </p><p>"Wanna... make it good for you. Don't want it to just be a one-sided deal, first time or not. I read a few books. Well, not a few... A lot, okay? That's it, though. Just books. Could probably use a real life tutorial," he confesses. He's just wilting with embarrassment and feelings of inadequacy and she couldn't love him any more for his determined honesty.</p><p> </p><p>"I think we can manage that," she assures. "Just need to wait a little longer to... recover from... the ordeal."</p><p> </p><p>Daryl smiles shyly. "Take all the time you need. I'll be waitin' when you're ready to give my first lesson."</p><p> </p><p>Carol's suddenly grinning. "Did these books have <em>pictures</em> in them? Drawings, or photographs?"</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Stop."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>Maggie apologizes as they shuffle sleepily into the kitchen. "I'm real sorry about yesterday. We didn't know you two were... "</p><p> </p><p>"It's okay," Carol assures her, giving Daryl's arm a squeeze. "Not like we were advertising." Daryl acknowledges Maggie with a nod and even meets her eyes for a second. She likely heard them racking the bed this morning, the whole house did, but he's not backing down and Carol averts her face to hide the twinkling amusement in her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"Glenn always saw y'all as together. I'm glad to see you together now." Then Maggie's guiding them to adjacent seats at the table. She brings them toast and plates of scrambled eggs with dried apple slices and wedges of cheese, and a separate platter stacked high with perfectly cooked and crisp strips of bacon that look and smell delicious and send Daryl and Carol both into paroxysms of uncontrollable laughter.</p><p> </p><p>As they sputter and snort, Carol tries to choke back what she's sure must seem like inappropriate mirth, but as soon as she meets Daryl's eyes again they're both losing it. Maggie undoubtedly believes they've gone off the deep end. They're wiping their eyes as they dwindle down into occasional wheezes and studiously avoid making eye contact with one another until both have their shit back together again. Then they tear into the stack of bacon slices. Daryl eats three slices first thing, one after the other.</p><p> </p><p>"Daryl was gored in the leg by a wild boar," Carol explains. "It's a long story." Her head was still swimming to think just yesterday they'd awakened at the fox's farm after what felt like an entire lifetime there. Not long after noon they were in Alexandria, and their entire world has changed... again. They've no choice except to change with it. That, too, is now the law of the jungle.</p><p> </p><p>Maggie's looking at Daryl in horror. "A wild boar?"</p><p> </p><p>Daryl nods, and gestures to his right. "I was bleedin' out. Carol stopped it, sewed me up, and kept me alive." He eats another strip of bacon. "Then she killed a bear with a hammer."</p><p> </p><p>"And a hatchet," Carol corrects quickly.</p><p> </p><p>Maggie makes a face like she's impressed. "That's all?"</p><p> </p><p>Carol and Daryl exchange a indecipherable look. Carol turns to Maggie again.</p><p> </p><p>"That's not enough?" she asks.</p><p> </p><p>Maggie starts to say something else, then seems to catch herself. "Honestly, I'm just so happy y'all both made it back home again. We've all lost enough friends and family." She's tearing up a little now, and wiping at her eyes and Carol's going to rise from her chair but Maggie waves her away with a little smile and Carol sinks into her seat again and turns gratefully back to her plate. She's starving. They both are. Daryl eating like an animal is nothing new, but Carol practically doing the same thing at his side is uncharacteristic. They inhale all the food Maggie's laid out for them except one big slice of bacon, which they give to Dog, waiting patiently beneath the table.</p><p> </p><p>Both are instantaneously light-headed and sleepy after their feast. They slip apologetically up to Carol's room and crawl right back into bed, where they sleep without waking until Maggie and Lydia bring them supper at dusk.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>This is their pattern again, reminiscent of how things played out at the fox's farm after Daryl nearly died. They eat, sleep, and gradually heal. Things stay platonic, and they don't tease each other like they did at the farm.</p><p> </p><p>They grow accustomed to living in a community again, they get used to hot, running water and solar panels and toilets that flush with a handle instead of dumping a bucket of water into the bowl. They get used to having enough food to eat. It is strange to eat when they're hungry, and to bathe and sleep and feel safe throughout it all. Safety is, of course, an illusion, but it's an illusion easy to maintain in a settlement of hundreds and surrounded by steel walls.</p><p> </p><p>Negan waylays them outside while they're on one of their walks a few days after their return. He's still here, cocky and vulgar and overbearing as ever and they're both disgusted to realize they actually missed him a little bit.</p><p> </p><p>"You resurrected undead lovebirds consummated the marriage yet? Have y'all finally <em>done the deed?" </em>he bellows across the street. Negan has always seen straight through both of them, and Carol know he'll be able to tell the very damn day that they've done it, because he's that irritatingly observant.</p><p> </p><p><em>"Such</em> an asshole," she sighs. They give Negan the finger and keep on walking.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl has a limp now. The nurses say it's probably permanent but they also emphasize how amazing it is Carol sewed it up as clean and as well as she did with what they had available. Because she did such a fine job, Daryl's recovered as much as he has from what would be a fatal injury for most people in their circumstances, and kept what is still a mostly functioning leg. She call tell the limp discourages him, but he's trying to take it in stride -- literally and figuratively. In the beginning he has a bit of the blues over his injury -- which realistically, impedes his ability to travel on foot over uneven ground during hunts -- and Carol pulls him aside to share her perceptions on his new gait, that it gives him a hint of swagger when he walks and she thinks it's hot as hell.</p><p> </p><p>If he's depressed or dismayed by his impediment again she can't tell.</p><p> </p><p>After a light walk and breakfast their third morning back, they tackle the task of getting Carol's bed frame, mattress and box springs from the upstairs bedroom down to Daryl's basement lair. The entire household and Aaron and Gabriel pitch in to spare Carol's torn up feet and Daryl's far-from-healed leg injury and without any questions, for which they're infinitely grateful. If people start asking them to define their relationship they're only going to get mute confusion in response. The group effort bed haul feels awkwardly like some kind of honeymoon suite prep only thankfully no one's saying that. They manage to keep the couch in Daryl's room, after all, although there's not much free space left to maneuver in once it's all said and done.</p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>Judith and Lydia bring them a big vanilla candle and a fragrant swag of evergreen boughs with a red ribbon wired into the middle of it. Daryl hangs it on the inside of the door while Carol lights the candle and the room soon smells faintly like a cake baking in a resinous forest. "Air Wick <em>au natural,"</em> Carol murmurs, and Daryl nudges her gently. <em>"Stop</em>. It's okay to be a romantic for once in your life. Ain't nothin' bad gonna happen."</p><p> </p><p>"You don't <em>know</em> that," she says stubbornly.</p><p> </p><p>"I do, though."</p><p> </p><p>"How?"</p><p> </p><p>"I have faith in us," he asserts. "You should, too."</p><p> </p><p>So she does. After all their talking and teasing about their future date, they'vespent a good two weeks back in Alexandria and it just happens. All their endless conversations and planning, and in the end there's nothing romantic or choreographed about it. It's not remotely like what they'd spoken of, but they knew that was all just fantasy anyway. This is the real deal. It's a quick unraveling more than anything else. A burst of phosphorescence, like the striking of a match.</p><p> </p><p>One minute they're lying in bed in their pajamas, the same as always. It's warm in the brownstone compared to the farmhouse, and they've rolled the covers down toward their feet. Daryl's lying on his back and Carol's on her right side. She's describing something with a lot of animation, and the hand she's using to gesture with happens to make a soft, unintentional landing right atop his nether region. His body instantly responds to her touch. Their eyes lock, and both freeze.</p><p> </p><p>In the next breath, they're rolling toward each other and tearing off their pajama pants. Carol grabs the front of Daryl's pajama shirt in both hands and pulls him on top of her in an unexpected display of sheer physical strength that is anything but off-putting. They've done this a thousand times in their imaginations and they're both more than ready. She holds him between her thighs, aims and tilts just right, and he glides straight in with barely any resistance until he bottoms out and their pelvises bump together.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes are full of ecstasy, amazement and something else she can't define, and she wonders what he sees in hers. She can tell by his face and his ragged breathing and hammering pulse that he's instantly overwhelmed by sensation and emotion, and the whole thing comes swiftly to an end almost before it's begun. He muffles a groan against her shoulder, and shudders.</p><p> </p><p>It's kind of crazy they've done the deed before their lips ever touch but they've never followed the paths of convention.</p><p> </p><p>Daryl instinctively attempts to flee immediately following his less than impressive performance and Carol tightens her arms and legs around him like a vise. "Where do you think you're going?"</p><p> </p><p>"Get a...towel... or somethin,'" he mumbles miserably, burying his face in the crook of her neck.</p><p> </p><p>"Daryl. Look at me."</p><p> </p><p><em>"I can't," </em>he groans. "Please don't make me."</p><p> </p><p>She takes his beloved, shaggy head in her hands, and lifts his face up out of hiding so she can look into his eyes. He doesn't resist but she can feel him withering under the scrutiny of her gaze.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm sorry," he says humbly, forcing himself to meet her eyes. His are full of shame and defeat.</p><p> </p><p><em>"Daryl,"</em> she says again, wrapping her mouth around his name like it's a confection. "I promised I was going to wreck you. Did you doubt me? Besides, we get to do it again. As much as we want, until we figure it out -- figure<em> each other</em> out. Okay? Practice makes perfect. So keep your shit together, because I want an encore as soon as you're able."</p><p> </p><p>Now that she's finally got hold of him she's not letting go. She laces her fingers through his hair and pulls him down to kiss him the way she's always imagined kissing him. <em>Finally</em>. She knows already that his hair is soft, and she suspected his lips would be, but his scruff is too, and for some reason that little detail just slays her. His soft lips and his soft scruff and his soft tongue tentatively beginning to tangle with hers. All this softness and vulnerability in him that's only for her to know and share, along with the way he tastes, of tobacco and the dried cherries they had with dinner.</p><p> </p><p>Kissing him at last unleashes all kinds of renewed primal urges in her, and Carol finds herself dialing it down to avoid literally <em>ravishing</em> him with her mouth, although she'll be doing that one way or another soon, anyhow. When she pulls back, he chases her lips with his. They discover he's a quick learner when he's not preoccupied with attempting to control his body's involuntary responses. They're pressed together as much it's possible to be and it's <em>still</em> not close enough. Eventually both of them need to come up for air, and she takes charge again.</p><p> </p><p>"Here, give me your hand," she instructs. "No, not that one, the dominant one. Are you ready for your first lesson?" she asks coyly.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm more than ready. Teach me <em>everything."</em></p><p> </p><p>*******</p><p> </p><p>They sleep in late, then intermittently nap throughout the morning and don't materialize from their room until after midday. Daryl's room has its own bathroom, so it's easy to remain in seclusion until they're ready to face the world. Nobody says word one to them when they don't emerge in the morning as usual, but the kids bring them a tray at breakfast, knock, and leave it outside the door. When the tousled couple at long last make a personal appearance in the early afternoon, finally driven from their boudoir by a need for additional nourishment, everyone is avoiding direct eye contact and wearing surreptitious smiles.</p><p> </p><p>Rosita, Gabe and Aaron come over to share a meal a few nights later, and Maggie opens a bottle of wine at dinner that she brought with her clear from the Commonwealth. They all toast Carol and Daryl, who, to their credit, barely even blush, and it helps that no one names them specifically, although it's clearly for and about them and everybody's looking right at them when they say it.</p><p> </p><p>"To homecomings," Maggie declares, raising her glass.</p><p> </p><p>"To homecomings," echoing around the table. And they drink.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*******<br/>Thanks for reading, I hope you found something here to enjoy.</p><p>This figment of my overactive imagination has always been for the one, true Queen of the zombie apocalypse, the inimitable Melissa McBride. Long may she reign.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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